Eavesdropping the Pancakes
by Boggy
Summary: A beautiful mansion. A live-in chef. A security staff of three dozen men. When you're locked away all day, every day, there's not much else to do besides think. About the beautiful mansion. The live-in chef. The security staff of three dozen men. ...And the beautiful heiress that runs it. And the bald guy that saved your life.
1. TV Time

Author's Notes: So... _Absolution_. I'm well aware this is NOT the favorite of many a _Hitman_ fans, especially those who remember very fondly the older entries, _Contracts_ and _Silent Assassin_. As someone who is equally a fan of both ( _Contracts_ to a lesser extent), I have to say, I REALLY enjoyed _Absolution_. I'll give you that it does show 47 with a more defined conscience than the older games (though I argue he always had one...to some extent), but I never found it to be unrealistically so. And I admittedly really liked the introduction of the character Victoria. I anticipated going in I would NOT, because who hasn't seen the "super ass-kicking teenage girl" done fifty thousand times before in movies and games. But if you pay attention, if you _listen_ to the way she speaks, how she speaks, and _hear_ what's she's saying, she's actually done quite well (plus, her voice actress is SUPERB). She's also an excellent vehicle for studying/picking apart the characters of Agent 47 and Diana, who are, let's face it, the only characters/things that actually matter in the _Hitman_ universe (as far as plot).

This will be the first in my series of _Hitman_ mini-fics, featuring the primary characters of the _Hitman_ universe, as seen/perceived through the eyes of Victoria. The individual fics are short, almost choppy, to reflect the disjointed (and often aggravatingly vague) nature of the _Hitman_ story. As it is told from the perspective of Victoria, a young teenager, the language errs on the side of childish, to emphasize Victoria's simple, inexperienced, and very isolated perception of reality. Each chapter will deal with a singular incident, almost exclusively from the setting of Diana's mansion from _Absolution_ 's first mission, "A Personal Contract."

I will warn you. Understanding some of what's addressed in my stories will require adequate understanding/knowledge of ALL _Hitman_ titles released to date. (Except for _Hitman GO_. That one isn't necessary. But I urge you to play it all the same. IT'S FANTASTIC. :D)

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **TV Time**

Victoria's favorite pastime was watching old-time, family television.

The classic network airwaves were littered with them, shows like _Bewitched_ , _Leave it to Beaver_ and _The Brady Bunch_. They were silly and impractical shows, she knew (especially when pitted against the sensibilities of the modern world). But there was something soothing and reassuring in their pristine—if not unrealistic—purity. It was a taste of the kind of life she had never known, the kind of life that she was almost certain did not exist.

Modern television, she had learned, did _not_ provide the same level of reassurance. There were dozens, perhaps even hundreds of family sitcoms and dramas, all with complexity and realism that far surpassed their more innocent counterparts of yesteryear. They were fast-paced, filled with action and suspense. The women roles were strong and haughty, the men's sarcastic and slick. They were predictable, in their own way, but with a lot of flare and flashy explosions and sex.

And yet, with all the glamour and special effects and seedy plot twists, the shows of "today" just could not compete with the charming simplicity of the happy, uncomplicated family. Shows where the father wore pressed suits and the mother kept pretty hats. Shows where children played ball and bought five cent taffy at the candy store. Shows where every episode was a moral, a lesson, something that taught children not to steal, lie, or fight. Shows where the most pressing teenage decision was who to invite to the school prom. Shows where everyone was beautiful and unsullied. Shows where families never fought, where fathers went to work and came home to kiss the mothers, where children always laughed and pets never ran away from home.

The families weren't weird. Or broken. The mother ran the home, cooked dinner, watched the kids. The dad drove to work, mowed the lawn, played golf. The kids went to school, rode bikes, and learned to grow.

It was so simple. So _perfect._

Diana didn't cook. Diana, Victoria was fairly certain, had never so much as held a pot. She'd probably never poured water that wasn't from the bathroom sink. But, Diana did run the home. And she had a live-in chef, who prepared five-star meals every morning and night. And she was always present. They ate breakfast and dinner together. They read together. When Victoria worked on her studies, Diana worked on her...whatever she did as Handler for the ICA. And sometimes, Diana would brush her hair or paint her nails or take her shopping for a pretty dress.

47 didn't go to work everyday. But he did work, and what he did he did very well. Diana once told her he made a lot of money as an "Agent" for the ICA, and Victoria often wondered where the money went. Diana didn't need it. She had "more money than God," as her security staff often joked, and probably made a lot of money herself working as 47's personal Handler. He didn't seem like the frivolous type, and she would have bet life and limb that his downtime _wasn't_ spent playing golf. But he did stop by to visit, now and then, and somehow Victoria knew, that when she stared out into the black nothingness of the night, her limbs resting over the railing of the mansion balcony, that somewhere, 47 stared back.

Exhausted, Victoria glanced at the clock. It was ten. Almost time for bed. She sighed, clamping her French studies book shut (Diana spoke fluent French and insisted she learn the same), rolling her shoulders to alleviate "study strain." She was just getting up from the table when Diana emerged from the back room. Wrapped snugly around her lithe frame was a very new and very expensive burgundy dress. She twirled once, making a slight "ta-da" motion with her hands.

"What do you think?"

Victoria nodded her approval. It looked fantastic, though she'd never known Diana to look anything but.

"Alright, but what about this?" She yanked a matching, burgundy hat off a nearby table, placing it ever-so-delicately on her magnificently coiffed head. "Too much?"

At this, Victoria smiled. The days of five cent taffy were gone. Problems weren't solved by wrinkling your nose. Her life was not the life of a perfect 50s' sitcom, nor was her "family."

But...it was pretty close.


	2. Morality Pet

Author's Notes: It's probably considered (by some fans) out-of-character for 47 to have a continued interaction/relationship with either Diana or Victoria post- _Absolution_. I argue it would be out-of-character NOT to, on the basis that 47 promises Victoria that "no one would ever touch/hurt her again." 47 is shown to (repeatedly) have a personal code of honor. He keeps his promises. He's loyal. His word is his bond. (All in his very "47-sort-of-way.") Kind of hard to keep a promise like that watching through the scope of a gun. I also argue there are deeper ties/connections between the characters of 47, Diana, and Victoria than are ever outright said in the game (though IO certainly isn't shy in tossing around hints)...but that's an AN for another day.

This is one of those "references to tidbit crap from 47's life" chapters. Again, a knowledge/understanding of the character and series is helpful for fully appreciating what happens. Just a heads up.

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Morality Pet**

Diana spoke with 47 outside work.

Victoria knew, because she could hear the phone calls through her bedroom door. It wasn't every night, or even every other night, but it was often enough that Victoria knew; they kept in touch. Whether 47 called Diana or Diana called 47, she wasn't sure. But every so often, long after Victoria had "gone to bed," the soft lilt of Diana's voice would waft through the living room walls and like a rocket, Victoria would bound—quietly—out of bed. With her ear pressed against the door, she'd strain to pick up any snippets of conversation the thick and decorative molding would allow.

The calls very often revolved around work, unsurprisingly, though every so often Victoria herself was the topic of conversation.

These were the phone calls Victoria liked best.

It was during these rare exchanges that Victoria learned more about herself than she was ever brave enough to ask outright. Diana knew _things_ , of that Victoria was certain. There were things Diana knew that Victoria was certain 47 did not. And there were a great many things Diana knew that Victoria was certain she did not want to know, and hopefully, would never learn.

 _The injections accelerated her physical growth._

Diana had said that some weeks ago.

 _Her emotional maturity is closer to that of a ten-year-old._

Victoria wondered if that had contributed to her immense love of stuffed dolls.

It had begun several months before. Victoria had awoke to what she assumed was yet another day of a very rigid routine—bath, eat, studies. What she found was Diana waiting for her at the living room bar—legs folded, hair perfect, posture straight. And on her face was the most genuine of smiles she'd ever seen. On the countertop, there rested a most peculiar package, wrapped with red ribbon and a small bow.

"Look what I found this morning."

It'd taken Victoria a long moment to process that the package was for her, and several moments more for the realization that 47 had left it the night before. And if he'd left it the night before, it meant he'd been there, in the mansion, _in the flesh_.

She'd been a little disappointed that he'd left before she woke, but it lessened considerably at the thought of a _present_ , of all things, from _47_. It disappeared completely when she opened the box to find a soft, white bunny tucked inside, its pink nose staring back at her as she held the prized toy at arm's length.

From that moment forward, no item in existence would ever or could ever hold as much value as her precious bunny. All of Diana's clothes, jewelry, expensive wine, and fine linens combined could never even hope to equal the importance, the worth, the sheer symbolic _magnitude_ of her adorable "Little Bun." It sat centerfold on her bedside nightstand, its plush-like body propped against her ornate, tabletop lamp. It slept with her most nights, snuggled reverently against her chest. Though once in awhile, as she stared wonderingly at it from her pillow, its blank but strangely comforting gaze would lull her into a safe and dreamless sleep.

Some months later, a second present appeared, it too wrapped with red ribbon and a small bow. Only in place of a bunny, was a bright and beautiful yellow canary. It was quite lifelike in appearance, so much so that Victoria wondered if it'd been custom-made. But like her "Little Bun," it was precious and perfect and she squealed at the prospect of not only one present from 47, but _two_. Diana too seemed uncharacteristically pleased, and for a second, Victoria was tempted to ask if he'd brought presents for her as well. But the relationship between 47 and Diana was like the "business" conducted by the ICA—secret and confidential. Asking particulars almost felt like defiling something sacred. So she held her tongue.

Later that night, Victoria snuggled into bed, both the canary and her "Little Bun" resting gently beneath the expensive silk sheets. Yawning, she felt the mattress sink as Diana, dressed in a stunning olive sheath dress, balanced herself at the right edge of her twin-sized bed.

"Have you found a spot for your new friend?" Diana's melodic voice sung of smiles.

"Not yet." Victoria yawned again, hugging the canary plush close. "He'll sleep with me tonight. I'll decide in the morning."

"Bedtime story…?" She heard Diana start, but she was already nodding off. Victoria felt a kiss on her forehead and a hand against her cheek.

Tucked safely under her arm was the bunny and her beautiful yellow bird.


	3. What's for Dinner?

Author's Notes: This chapter makes me laugh. I think it's the longest of these thus far, because I just couldn't find a way to quit. I admittedly love anything that involves the Burnwood Mansion security staff (to be honest, the NPCs in _Hitman_ are some of the funniest/most enjoyable moments in any _Hitman_ game). I'm not sure if the security staff is killed in series canon. The opening cinematic suggests they are (and it'd certainly be tricky taking Victoria out of the mansion with every bodyguard on-hand patrolling the perimeter/downstairs), but IO have never been sticklers for continuity and this IS _Hitman_ , where suspension of disbelief is pretty much a necessity for...everything. So the security staff still live in my story, because death is a downer, and my story is happy. More or less.

Also, for those of you who didn't pick up on it playing _Absolution_ , Victoria idolizes 47 (in an OBVIOUSLY NON-ROMANTIC way—geez, people). I would imagine she does Diana as well, since both Diana and 47 are very strong characters. It is implied (via Victoria's introductory dialog) that Victoria perceives herself as quite weak, hence her references (in my story) to Diana's "perfectness" and 47's "strength."

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **What's for Dinner?**

He'd came.

After four months of waiting, he'd come. He'd simply showed up one evening, unexpectedly—well, Diana didn't seem too surprised—clad in his signature black suit and silken tie. His eyes shone coldly, standing in all his fearful majesty in the walkway of the main hall. He was tall, authoritative, stern. The bodyguards nearby seemed small and unimpressive, an unequal in every way to the flawless and (seemingly) human specimen before them. Victoria herself felt small...but not fearfully so. It was a secure small, like a hatchling tucked safely under the parent bird, or a pup nestled soundly against the papa wolf.

And like a beta submitting to the alpha male, the bodyguards backed off. To their credit, they didn't leave the room, but there was noticeable distance between them and the mansion's menacing stranger. Only when Diana arrived onscene did the tension dissolve, her stride and presence the only of the room's a match to the dauntless 47. She was a good head and a half shorter and far more delicate in build. But there was something in the look of them. Their pressed clothes, their controlled voices...even the way they stood together was beautiful.

Victoria, awe-stricken, analyzed their exchange. She waited obediently at the bottom of the steps, channeling every ounce of self-restraint she could to keep from hurling herself at 47. She'd made that mistake last time, receiving an amused but firm reprimanding from Diana.

 _Ladies don't maul guests, Victoria._

She could have respected that...if it hadn't been _four months_ since his last visit. After all, the man was a ghost, an apparition. He called regularly to "check in," but it wasn't the same. It wasn't like having him home, in the flesh. These visits were important to the both of them, she knew. How was it Diana kept so composed?

Victoria, on the other hand, had been on pins and needles since his sleek, black car pulled into the mansion garage. Now that he stood not five feet from her, she worried she might combust.

"Victoria?"

As always, Diana's voice was the go-between. And its silent consent was all the okay Victoria needed as she bounded into the strong—and slightly surprised—free arm of Agent 47.

"Victoria." His voice betrayed nothing, but his half-bodied embrace spoke to a tenderness that made both she and Diana smile.

"Hi," was her brilliant response. Not that she'd really known what to say, but surely something, anything was better than brainless, boring "Hi." Victoria wished she and Diana had come up with a codename for when he came to the house. She knew better than to call him "47;" Diana had drilled that point big time. Using 47's "name" outside herself and Diana was a _gargantuan_ no-no. But nothing else really seemed to fit. If he wasn't "47," he wasn't, well, _47_. You couldn't just tack a name onto him; he wasn't a "job" inside the mansion. Taking the name meant taking the suit, the tie, the barcode. It meant turning him into every other ordinary man of the world. And Victoria didn't want a regular old "Richard," "John," or "Joe." Neither did Diana.

"We were just about to sit down to dinner." The heiress didn't miss a beat. "Perhaps you'd like to come upstairs and freshen up?"

Victoria squealed—inwardly—at the prospect of having 47 for dinner. He accepted the invitation, by the nod of his head, allowing Diana to lead him to the upper floor of the house.

"Victoria, why don't you pick a seat for our friend at the dinner table?"

And so there she stood, staring down the kitchen table, agonizing over where to place a _chair_. It was really just a matter of plunking one in an empty spot—not a complicated decision. The problem was, Victoria wanted to sit _between_ Diana and 47, so she could be center of the conversation. But she also really wanted 47 and Diana seated beside each other. If they sat together, Victoria could watch them together. But if she sat on the end, she'd feel lonely, like an outsider.

In the end, the decision was made for her. Diana opted to seat 47 at the head of the table, pitting herself and Victoria on opposing sides at either arm. This put 47 in the middle, technically speaking, which Victoria felt gave them both access to equal attention. She could still watch their interactions, but was close enough to not feel excluded from the conversation.

Not that there was a whole lot of "conversation" to be included in. Diana said very little. 47 said even less. Victoria didn't know what _to_ say, out of fear that whatever she said might be something she wasn't supposed to say, because it was something the chef or security staff weren't supposed to know. Because Victoria would have bet anything they were listening in, ears pressed to the wall or the dining area door, hoping to scrounge up some juicy bit of household gossip.

The security staff were notorious busybodies. And no employer was more mysterious, more secretive, more scandalously fascinating than Diana Burnwood. And never before had she brought home a man—at least, not in the four plus years Victoria had lived there. This was enough intrigue to last the service men's shift changes for a month.

Though dialog was thin, the atmosphere of the room was surprisingly...warm. Both 47 and Diana seemed perfectly content, as at ease as if they'd had dinner together every night for twenty years. Neither looked the need to do anything but eat and enjoy the companionable silence. Victoria too felt content, happy even, at having the two most important people in her life together in one place. Every so often Diana would look up and smile at her from across the table. 47 did the same, minus the smile.

And somewhere in the middle of the meal, Victoria caught herself with a smile you couldn't have scraped off with a plaster knife.


	4. Taste-tester (Part I)

Author's Notes: So. The story faves and reviews are in. I appreciate your guys' feedback. The _Hitman_ fic community is pretty small, and not very active as far as I can tell. So it's cool that some of you are taking the time to let me know what you think. Thanks for that.

Today's piece picks up where the last one left off. I wasn't quite ready to let 47 or the dinner party go, so I just kept right on going. This chapter not only continues on from the previous episode, but is in and of itself a two-part theme. I'll try to post Part II in a couple days.

The general idea here is "parenting." That is, establishing boundaries for Victoria so that she knows what she should and should not do in a very 47 and Diana kind-of-way. :D Enjoy.

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Taste-tester (Part I)**

After dinner, Victoria had rushed upstairs to change into her pjs. She didn't _think_ 47 would just take off…but it wasn't something Victoria was willing to risk. She threw on her night clothes with lightning speed, nearly tripping twice, then bounded down the stairs two steps at a time. As she hit the bottom step, she scanned the room anxiously, exhaling in relief. 47—still present—and Diana had moved from the kitchen to the living area. Ever the professional, Diana sat opposite 47, her legs crossed and an after-dinner drink in hand. 47, dapper as always in his classic suit and tie, eyed Diana from his seat. His face was characteristically stern, but with a probing intensity that Victoria had come to learn was reserved for Diana and Diana alone. He too held a glass in hand, which he sipped between soul-shattering stares.

Moments passed as Victoria eyeballed their bizarre "exchange." But Diana took notice of her dawdling and beckoned her near with a smile. Embarrassed, Victoria scooted barefoot across the dining room carpet. She plopped herself on the couch beside 47, flashing her mysterious savior a shy smile.

The gesture was not returned. However, the pondering curiosity with which he analyzed Diana was dropped. He did not smile, but his face was not unkind.

Feeling brave, Victoria inched closer. To her surprise, 47 did not recoil, but rather leaned forward, granting her a closer look at the drink in hand. It was the color of amber and smelled...strong. She sniffed it experimentally, wondering if the taste matched its robust smell. 47, eyebrow raised, looked once at the drink, then once again at her, tilting the glass forward in offering.

Victoria was used to wine. Diana drank it most nights with dinner. She'd even been allowed a glass, once or twice, though she'd never particularly taken to the taste.

But this...this wasn't wine.

Out of the corner of her eye, Diana shot 47 a mildly disapproving frown. 47 shook his head in response, as if to say, "It's fine." Diana stared blankly for a moment, but ultimately nodded her consent. Somewhere in her caretakers' wordless "talk," they'd reached a silent, but unified consensus. It wasn't the first time Diana and 47 had "consulted" one another with regards to her. The fact made her chest warm.

With the matter settled, she wrapped her fingers gingerly around either side of the glass, her fingertips overlapping his own as they tilted the drink in unison to her lips.

Almost instantly, she was repulsed.

The liquid was icy cold, but bitter. What a horrid taste! Victoria could feel her face puckering at the pungent flavor, her hands hastily pushing the drink as far from her mouth as her arms could reach. It was all she could do not to spit up over herself, 47, and the living room couch. She glared at the offending substance through pursed lips, squinting her eyes in gagging disgust.

Smirking, 47 leaned back, taking the chilled glass with him. Victoria understood then that she'd been set up, his body language indicating he'd sent and delivered the intended message.

"Remember that," was his only remark.

Diana laughed daintily into her wine, her bright eyes cast adoringly at 47, as if to say, "Well done." Victoria didn't think it quite as funny, but had to admit, it was worth it to see both 47 and Diana so relaxed. It wasn't often that either of them looked...happy.

It was a hard—and yucky—lesson learned. But Victoria giggled nonetheless, her shoulders falling playfully against the toned arm of 47.

It was a good day.


	5. Taste-tester (Part II)

Author's Notes: I'd planned on posting this chapter weeks ago except, 2016's almost gone...and I'm still trying to figure out what happened to 2015. I've been in a whirlwind the last _month_ trying to pull things together for Christmas. Which is in two days. ... _What the fudge?_

Hopefully, though, it'll be worth the wait. I've known what I've wanted to do with this chapter since before I even started _Eavesdropping the Pancakes_ (hence the title), but I had trouble penning it to words. I'm praying it comes across okay to the readers (you guys). This particular chapter is the last we'll see of 47 for a bit since, you know, the guy's got a life. Plus, sometimes 47 serves us best when he _isn't_ around. :D

Once again, familiarize yourself with 47's background, if you haven't already. Otherwise, this chapter means nothing.

Please enjoy. I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas/holiday weekend. *throws confetti*

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Taste-tester (Part II)**

He was resting on the couch when she woke up.

After their dinner "drinks," the remainder of the evening had passed in a blur. Victoria spent most of it rattling off current events—her schedule, her studies, her favorite TV programs—all to a very silent but politely attentive 47. The heiress too was still, her lean legs crossed, her poise and posture ever the picture of perfection. Victoria didn't recollect trudging off to bed or even saying goodnight; she must have dozed off on the couch. Though she seemed to recall a pair of strong, masculine arms carrying her upstairs…

Victoria wasn't exactly a "morning person," but at the sight of 47 reclined on their upstairs dining sofa, she perked, hastily rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

It was strange to see him that way—leaned back, eyes closed, with his arms resting over the back of the couch. His shoes and pants were on, but his white shirt was buttoned down and opened, exposing his chest. He almost looked...asleep, but a single step gave her away. Immediately, his head lifted, his eyes zeroing in as he took in the sight of her pink pajamas and tousled red hair.

It occurred to her then that she'd only seconds before come stumbling out of bed. In an effort to appear somewhat presentable, she matted her hair down with the palms of her hands, praying she didn't look as out of sorts as she felt.

47 was, predictably, unmoved.

"Good morning, Victoria," he said simply.

"Good morning." Her voice sounded thick with sleep.

She trotted over to sit near him, plopping herself at the left end of the couch. 47 neither spoke nor moved. His eyes, however, connected with her own, their otherworldly hue emanating an unnamed emotion.

It lasted—whatever "it" was—up until the sound of a small click. Diana had emerged from the confines of her bedroom, tying together the wrap of her short, silk robe. It amazed Victoria how beautiful Diana was, thirty seconds out of bed. Her hair was loose and her makeup wasn't done, but it didn't matter. Victoria was convinced she was the prettiest lady who'd ever lived.

"Good morning, you two."

"Morning, Diana."

47 nodded.

The heiress took a seat just diagonal of their "guest."

"Sleep well?"

It was an open question, but Victoria gathered it was directed at her.

"Yes, very well."

She wondered then where 47 had slept—on the couch?—but didn't have the nerve to ask.

After that, the room fell into an uncertain silence.

It was foreign territory for the three of them. 47 had not once, to Victoria's knowledge anyway, stayed the night. He'd visited before, sure, but always in the evening and never more than a few hours. And yet here he was, 8:30 in the morning, with his tie off and his shirt untucked. Victoria was thrilled to have him there, of course. It was just, well...what exactly did you do with a hitman in the house?

She tried to think of what she'd be doing if it were a normal day. Victoria followed a very rigid routine (she'd found she struggled functioning without one). She woke up at 8AM. She brushed her teeth. She took a bath. She made her bed. She went downstairs for breakfast...

"Can 47 stay for breakfast?" The question spilling out surprised even Victoria.

A pause.

"That's for 47 to decide." Diana's words were pointedly nonintrusive.

Victoria shot a hopeful glance at 47, his face an odd mixture of amusement and surprise.

"Breakfast," he said simply. His eyes locked once again with her own. "It _is_ the most important meal of the day."

Another pause.

"Well, then." Diana smoothed her robe—an action no doubt designed to mask her surprise—the matching, babydoll nightie she wore peeking through. "I'll pass word on to the chef."

Feeling brave, Victoria pushed further. "Can we eat up here?"

The last thing she wanted was a "family" breakfast with security breathing down their necks.

The heiress smiled. "I don't see why not."

Woo-boy. Diana was in a good mood.

"I'll even have him whip up some pancakes."

At the word _pancakes_ , Victoria's hands curled into childish fists. "With chocolate chips and cinnamon cream?"

Diana laughed at her infectious, girlish glee. "With chocolate chips and cinnamon cream."

Scratch that. Diana was in a _very_ good mood.

They ate well at the mansion, she and Diana, with access to...pretty much every food under the sun. Victoria didn't really remember what it was she ate under care of the doctors—the thought darkened her smile a bit—but she'd found, living with Diana, there were a great many spectacular tastes to be enjoyed in the world of the free. Victoria was at liberty to try anything and everything that trickled its way through the kitchen doors. Variety, moderation, and the occasional "not-smothered-in-butter-and-gooey-syrup" breakfast were Diana's only "rules."

Victoria'd had pancakes just two days before. Normally she was limited to a single "decadent pancake feast" a week. It was one of very few areas Victoria had ever known her caretaker to be modestly "strict."

"Bloody pancakes." The heiress shook her head, her words directed at 47. "I swear, she'd eat them breakfast, lunch, and dinner if I allowed it."

It was true. Above any other food, dessert or otherwise, pancakes were her absolute, beyond a shadow of a doubt, favorite thing—ever. She loved them. The fluffy texture, the gooey syrup, the comfortingly warm aroma of butter and whipped cream… And you could pair them with most anything. The chef, fueled by Victoria's love of food, had created some rather unique pancake concoctions, often testing new combinations of fruits, creams, and toppings—with Victoria as his honorary taste-tester, of course.

"Pancakes?" 47's eyes, now wide, left Diana's fetching silhouette, coming to rest once again on the sleep-ruffled form of Victoria.

She tossed him a sheepish smile, pulling her knees flush with her chest.

"Pancakes," he repeated, his tone filled with as much mystery as his eyes.

And there "it" was again. It passed between them like an electric shock, 47's eyes searching—for what, Victoria wasn't sure—as he fervently studied the lines, the details, the colors of her face. The intensity of his stare was a tad unsettling. While never overly bubbly, she'd always known 47 to project a certain...pleasantness in his interactions with her. His look now, though not unfriendly, was eerily inquisitive. So many questions swirling in the enigma of his gaze, but he voiced nothing.

"And you, 47?" Diana's lilt grounded the current.

He responded, his eyes never breaking contact with her own.

"I'll have the same."

An hour later breakfast arrived, with four stacks each for herself and 47, and a— _boring_ —half grapefruit and tea for Diana. The heiress shook her head as Victoria poured a healthy dollop of syrup over top, oozing over the sides with butter and cinnamon cream. Though he'd ordered the same, the chef had surprised 47 with a serving of banana-pecan and maple syrup.

Victoria stabbed at her own stack, eyeballing the bananas and pecans.

"I bet mine's better," she boasted between mouthfuls.

47 raised a brow. Accepting her challenge, he dug his fork into one side of her stack, plopping a hearty bite of cinnamon into his mouth.

She giggled, stealing a forkful of banana-pecan in turn (it was equally delectable). Feeling warmth in the pit of her stomach, Victoria smiled, 47 mirroring a—very—small smile of his own. They swapped bites until every bit of pancake, syrup, and sugary topping was gone.

...And in her peripheral was the lovely Diana, breakfast untouched, her face full of secret.


	6. Reflect

Author's Notes: If you're any kind of fan of _Hitman_ , _Absolution_ especially, I can't recommend the _Absolution_ "Full Disclosure" trailer enough. I think it was available through iOS originally, but has since been uploaded ten times over onto YouTube. It's basically a big compilation of artwork, footage, storyboards, original concepts and deleted scenes for _Hitman: Absolution_. It's also the source material used as inspiration for the following short.

The video clocks in around 52 minutes long, but it's 52 minutes well spent. However, if you can't be bothered/don't want to invest that kind of time, Google "Hitman Full Disclosure," pick a vid, then slide the time stamp/progress bar over to 36:46 (or so, depending on the upload). It's a short dialog of Victoria and her thoughts, life at the mansion, Diana, and so on. Again, it's short, but what she says speaks volumes of her character, and gives a very unique insight into Victoria's perception of both Diana and 47. Great stuff.

This installment touches on the loneliness/isolation mentioned briefly in said dialog. It also touches on the relationship between Diana and Victoria, and how Victoria (and others—the mansion security staff in particular) perceive Diana's workaholic/work-driven (read: 47-driven) nature. Both the game and dialog imply that Victoria is childish, naive, and a bit awe-stricken with her guardians (47 in particular). And how, evidenced by her love of Diana's stories of 47's exploits, thrives on Diana's (likely seldom given/received) attention.

Going forward, most (if not all, to some extent) shorts will include references/allusions to the FD video. (Because I don't like pulling characterizations out of my ass. I prefer to use canonical background/source material to support my theories and portrayals.)

Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Reflect**

She hadn't always been allowed outside.

After escaping "the Lab" and being brought to live at their superfluous Chicago abode, the first rule of order had been "never leave the house." Avoid doors, keep the blinds drawn—even the greenhouse and tennis courts were off limits.

It was lonely, and to an outsider probably seemed unhealthy and harsh. But Victoria understood the necessity. Well, she hadn't really _understood_ —truthfully, nothing about her life had _ever_ made sense—but she had understanding enough to know that Diana's actions were driven by a genuine concern for her well-being. (Which was far and above what she could ever say about Blake Dexter and "the Doctors.")

But ever since 47 stepped onto the scene, single-handedly silencing her captors and the man responsible for her creation—in the scientific sense, at least—a whole new world had opened up to Victoria. No longer was she confined to the restrictive walls of Diana's mansion. No longer did she look at the world through closed blinds and half-covered peepholes. The world was, for the first time in her very irregular life, available to experience not as an observer, but as a participant.

Oh sure, there were still rules. They still took precautions. But when stepping barefoot on your own back porch is forbidden, even a simple stroll down the driveway feels like a miracle.

 _Today_ , on the other hand, was leaps and bounds above even that. Today, she and Diana were headed into town. It wasn't the first trip they'd taken into Chicago, but it was the first with only the driver and a single armed guard as protective detail. Both were overkill—Diana could drive, and their would-be hunters were already dead—but the heiress was nothing if not cautious.

The guard sat up front, passenger side, while she and Diana sat together in the back seat. The driver's eyes kept to the road, but every few seconds, Victoria would catch the guard's curious stare in the reflection of the rearview mirror. She stared back, as a game, but giggled when his eyes crossed. Victorious, the guard blinked, stealing a sideways glance at his enigmatic employer. His eyes visibly sighed then, his head shaking disapprovingly as he turned his attention back to the front of the car.

Diana paid no nevermind to her, the driver, or the guard, the whole of her attention on work as she "tap-tapped" away at the computer splayed across her lap.

Victoria often wondered if ever a moment passed when her caretaker didn't think about work. It seemed her obsession, most days, hooked into an earpiece, huddled over a briefing file, peering into the glow of a PC. It was her life, all she'd ever really known or had to rely on, as best Victoria could tell. And she did none of the "conventional" things Victoria read about or saw on TV. She never cried. She never binged on sweets. She never flipped through wedding catalogs.

Victoria had her doubts Diana had ever even had a boyfriend.

But Diana was her world—or at least, the biggest part of it—for which Victoria was very grateful. Even so...there were moments when she wished Diana wasn't so single-minded.

Victoria knew better than to interrupt while Diana worked, but a strong—surprisingly childish—urge welled within her to...yell? Fuss? Poke her arm? She wasn't quite sure what, but something, _anything_ to win her attention was better than the suffocating fog of silence surrounding them.

However, before she could act, the car slowed, pulling to the curb. The squeak of a tire and then, the jolt of the brake. They'd arrived.

"Well then," Diana was at attention instantly, closing her laptop and smoothing the front of her dress. Posh and perfect, she bore a small smile as she looked into the awe-stricken face of her young charge.

(Victoria would have bet money she was a princess.)

The driver and the guard opened the car door, for Diana and herself respectively, the guard's eyes darting here and there for even the slightest sign of a threat. When he found none, his face relaxed, his imposing form following herself and Diana as they slipped inside a ritzy, two-story fashion boutique.

They'd been before; it was one of Diana's favorite shops. But today the guard stayed at the front of the store while she and Diana walked further in, alone. Victoria had nothing against security—the guards were all quite nice, actually—but couldn't suppress the excitement at having Diana all to herself.

Her caretaker led the way, of course, Victoria right at her heels as they made their way to the Ladies' dress aisle. Diana had a penchant for dresses, skirts, heels—anything form-fitted and figure-flattering and decorated lavishly with a name brand. She'd spend an hour matching colors, textures and silhouettes, then another half hour in the dressing room trying her creations on. And that was only the start. With her own wardrobe settled, she'd turn her attentions to Victoria, and thus the cycle began anew.

Not that Victoria minded the ordeal. She'd never cared much about clothes—mostly because she had no idea what did or didn't pair well—but she did love how almost-happy Diana seemed outfitting her in "chic little sundresses" and "darling little skirts" and hearing how "just lovely" she was no matter what random thing Diana insisted she try on. Especially when she looked into the reflection of the dressing room mirror, Diana's own reflection staring back from behind her, hands resting at her shoulders and a look in her eyes that spoke of something warm…

Diana had already dove head first into a rack of something silky and blue, so Victoria kept back, hands resting at her side while she waited patiently for Diana to claim her catch.

"But Mom!"

Victoria's ears perked at the words wafting from over and around a nearby display of slacks.

"Dear, I don't know what you want me to do. You've known this was coming."

"But I don't want to go to a boarding school!"

Well, well. This was an interesting development. Feeling nosy—and checking that the coast was clear—Victoria ducked. Peeking around the corner of the trouser display, she zeroed in on the disgruntled forms of a mother and daughter pair at a literal standoff in the middle of Ladies Legwear.

"It's _only_ for a year." The mother's tone was flagrantly vexed. "And you'll be back for all the holidays."

"But it's a _sleepaway_ school." The younger whined with contempt.

"It's a fabulous opportunity. Your father attended the same school when he was your age."

"But I don't see the point in going to a school halfway around the country. I'd rather stay here."

Victoria could feel the unvoiced "with you" at the end of the sentence.

"We've already decided." The mother's tone was unapologetic. "Change is never easy, but your father and I feel this is for the best."

"But I won't know a single person there!"

"You'll make new friends in no time," the mother countered. "Why, to this day your father keeps in touch with acquaintances he made at St. Charles. They've been some of his closest companions through the years."

"Then let him live there!"

At that, Victoria pulled back. She didn't want to hear anymore.

Returning to her own party, she chanced a look at Diana, but the heiress had her back turned, examining a dress she'd pulled, oblivious to the drama around them. If she'd noticed the argument between mother and daughter, she didn't show it. Instead, she returned the piece in hand before quickly and purposefully pulling a second.

Victoria kept quiet. She stayed back, let her hands fall once again to her side, and waited.

Two hours and three shopping bags later, she and Diana were back in the car and making the return trip home. Victoria was tired, having tried on countless skirts and shoes, and hungry. In previous outings, Diana would always ask if she wanted a bite to eat before heading in. But today, she said nothing. She'd piled quickly into the car and instructed the driver to move along. It looked like today's trip was done.

Sighing, Victoria propped her elbow against the door, watching buildings and pedestrians whiz by as she stared absently into the windy, Chicago downtown.

"Victoria."

She jumped at the sound of her name. Victoria thought Diana had resumed work on her laptop. But looking over, the heiress was staring out her own passenger door, her stoic face reflected in the spotless glass of the left-side window.

"I was thinking…" Diana's voice trailed off, before turning to address her directly. Her face once again bore a small smile, her hands resting primly in her lap.

"I'm finished with work for today, and you've done well this week with your studies." There was _almost_ a tinge of uneasiness in Diana's voice. "I thought maybe we could watch a movie tonight." She paused. "You know, just the two of us."

Time came to a standstill then as Victoria spent the next several seconds processing Diana's words. Admittedly, all the days seemed to run together in their world, but never in all the years they'd lived together had she known Diana's work to be "done." "Work" and "finished" were mutually exclusive, let alone uttered within the same sentence. Work _never_ ended. There was _always_ some new contract, briefing, assignment, _something_ waiting in the wings to steal Diana away.

But at the realization of her offer, Victoria felt her mouth break out into a face-splitting grin, her head nodding ferociously at the prospect of eating popcorn and watching a movie. _Together._

"Excellent," was Diana's only reply, before turning her attention to the front of the car.

Victoria squealed in her seat, but stilled when she felt Diana's small hand wrap firmly around her own, giving it a soft squeeze.

She returned the squeeze, grasping the heiress' hand as if life depended on it. In her peripheral, she caught the stare of the security guard in the rearview mirror, his eyes smiling at the intertwined hands of caretaker and charge.

Their hands held firm the rest of the ride home.


	7. Dreamcatcher

Author's Notes: Hello all! I wanted to take just a quick second to say THANK YOU to my readers, most especially those who've taken time to leave a review. I always welcome/appreciate feedback, if for no other reason than to gauge how the audience receives my work. So far, the reception is a positive one. I've received several reviews requesting additional chapters. Fear not; I plan on writing for as long as I can find inspiration for new themes (and I have a number on the backburner, so no worries there). I've even considered doing one-shot side pieces from other character perspectives (namely 47 and Diana). Though I'm sticking with Victoria for now.

I've had this particular chapter planned since long before the fic began. I've always liked the idea of Diana's "stories" as sort of post-nightmare/pre-bedtime tales (the game doesn't specify how exactly the stories are told) as a means of not only quelling bad dreams (that no doubt Victoria would have), but also as a means of building up 47's character so that he becomes a kind of role model/icon of trust (rather than a heartless merc gunning Diana down for no reason). The game clearly states that Diana speaks of 47 often (Victoria says she "always talks about him"), and Victoria clearly recognizes him when he breaks through her bedroom door (to which she barely blinks). So it's safe to say, Victoria's heard about 47 A LOT.

I also wanted to point out the importance of Diana's voice. It's used quite clearly/often as a symbol of comfort in my fic. I do this in line with my belief that Diana's voice is a source of comfort for 47 as well (if you don't like the word "comfort," replace it with "routine;" I believe the two are interchangeable in the mind of 47).

Additionally, this chapter touches on Victoria's escape from the Agency. The details are vague, obviously, as it's never explained just how exactly Diana smuggles her out. As the game itself offers little/nothing, I've developed a "headcanon" of sorts to explain certain details regarding Victoria's story. First and foremost, I believe Victoria's physical growth was accelerated, and her age as of _Absolution_ eight to ten physically, and one to two years chronologically (at most). My reasoning being, it would be difficult for Travis to keep a "project" like Victoria under wraps for long without someone taking notice (especially with Diana always poking her nose into every nook and cranny of the Agency's going-ons). And, if you recall, earlier games in the series mention Class 2/Type 2 clones with similar physical accelerations (I believe Parchezzi, from _Blood Money_ , reached physical maturity within 2 years). I imagine Victoria to be physically only nine or ten at the time of her and Diana's escape, and then thirteen to fourteen (again, physically) at the start of _Absolution_ (her body resuming a normal growth process without the "Doctors'" injections). Chronologically, I consider her only a few years old.

Clearly, I have NOTHING to support ANY of what I've just said. These are just personal theories used to develop a more substantial backstory/help support certain details of my fic. For myself, it seemed like a fairly logical approach given what we've seen in previous _Hitman_ titles, and because, well, _Hitman logic_. xD

I do apologize for rambling. I just thought it was important to communicate some headcanon/backstory to my readers, since a lot of liberties are taken with this particular short. I do hope you enjoy, and please feel free to leave comments and/or your own personal headcanons in a review.

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Dreamcatcher**

They'd lessened as she got older.

When she'd first come to live with Diana, they'd been bad. And frequent. Rarely a night went by she wasn't plagued with dreams—they were nightmares, really—of experiences she couldn't quite place, of memories she couldn't quite remember. The pain, the epileptic jolts, all phantom recollections of white light, wires, and the numbing sensation of muted fear. They felt real, and yet, disconnected...almost as if she existed without time.

The first "tangible" memory she could place was of Diana. There was fog, a landscape of faded colors, and then Diana's outstretched hand pulling her across cold, tiled floor. She remembered feeling disoriented, but with a kind of dizzying alertness that made her fingers and toes twitch. And there was something in Diana herself, a sort of connectedness she could sense passing between them like an electric shock. Stealthily and with hands intertwined, they absconded to safer ground.

She'd been littler then. It wasn't long before exhaustion took and she'd found herself cradled in her soon-to-be caretaker's arms. Diana had clutched her with feeling Victoria to this day couldn't place, a protective ferocity she'd only felt mirrored in the stalwart arms of 47. And Victoria had held her back, arms wrapped around Diana's neck as if they'd been genetically molded to fit there.

The events that followed were all but a blur. The urgency and purpose with which Diana moved left little time for detail. Victoria could only recall fading in and out of consciousness as light and sound and sky whizzed angrily by.

"I need you to listen," she'd said. "I need you to trust."

 _Trust_. Their lives were gambled on it.

The first few weeks were strange. A grand new house, a legion of personal guards, a beautiful and secretive heiress, and the exciting stories of a sophisticated legend more reaper than man. If her world had been a fishbowl blur of grisly snapshots before, it was something straight out of a swanky spy novel in the after.

(It was almost enough to wonder if she were cracking up.)

Diana offered little in the way of information. She'd given her a room, a wardrobe, and a name—Victoria. It must have come from some official file or document, as Victoria herself felt a ring of familiarity in its ID. Soon after, she'd wrapped a chain and metal trinket around her neck.

"Keep this," she'd said. "Never take it off."

When Victoria asked about "scary men" in "long, white coats," Diana responded grimly.

"The Doctors."

It was a lot to absorb, to say the least. But as terrifying as her circumstances were, life at the manor was oddly riveting. Especially Diana. Victoria's imagination ran _wild_ with the intrigue that surrounded the eerily isolated but beautifully meticulous heiress. She operated with such exactness, such precision, it made Victoria's head spin. She wanted everything just so-so, to the second, demanding a near stifling perfection from the chef, the guards, and above all, herself. There was a hardness to her that was both aweing and intimidating, though she was not unkind.

And...she was all Victoria had.

But there was no fooling yourself in the reality of the dark, and it was in that first week the nightmares began.

She had woken in a cold sweat, heaving from the feeling of suffocation, when she felt a soft, perfectly manicured hand brush a strand of matted hair from her face. Whose it was was a mystery until she heard the distinctive lilt of her caretaker's voice.

It was the first of many nights she would wake to find Diana at her side.

...And incidentally, 47 as well.

"He's perfection," Diana would say. "He is without flaw. Without weakness."

Sometimes, Victoria would wake silently from a dream, creep into Diana's bedroom, and slink under the covers beside her. There, tucked safely between the pillows of Diana's queen-sized bed, Diana would recount any number of fantastic tales of the man no chains could hold, no camera could catch. Singapore, Japan, Italy, France—time and place were irrelevant. There was no hellhole too bleak, no tower too tall. For the _unstoppable Agent 47_ , it was just another day on the job.

47's fearlessness in the face of certain death was a stark contrast to her own cowardice—often at walking the hall from her bedroom to the bathroom door. It seemed to Victoria that every wall held an uncertainty, every corner a twisted foe. And the second evening struck, both came clawing for her in the terror of the dark.

For every bad dream, there was a story. But from those stories Victoria drew strength. 47's courage helped quell her own crippling fears, to the point where life became not simply bearable, but pleasant. But it wasn't just the stories themselves she loved. There was something in the way Diana told them, something in Diana's _look_.

That too had sent Victoria's imagination wild.

Over time, stories became commonplace, not just for nightmares, but for story time before bed. And of course, the ones where Diana and 47 worked together were the ones she liked most. Even now, with the fear of yesteryear long past and her would-be hunters dead, stories were still tradition at the Burnwood Family Mansion.

From time to time, so were dreams.

Victoria woke with a start, her chest heaving. Nightmares were rare, but like old skeletons, had a way of resurfacing in the dark. Though they did not seize her as strongly as in her younger days. Already the effects subsided, the shadows pillowing away to nothing in the glow of her bedside nightlight. Seated beside her was Diana, unsurprisingly, wiping away drops of moisture from her brow.

"There now," was all she said.

Already Victoria could feel herself drifting off, images of the unseen fading into nothing at the sound of her voice. It seemed stories would have to wait for another night.

And as her eyes fluttered shut, she could have sworn she caught the sentry-like silhouette of 47 standing at her bedroom door.


	8. Pipeline

Author's Notes: I'm pretty happy with how this one turned out. It's a little on the lengthy side (compared to the others), but that's mostly due to the excess of dialog (again, compared to the other chapters). I've been wanting a fic that focuses on my favorite characters (outside of 47 and Diana), but I wasn't sure how to approach it and keep the story Victoria POV. Then I came up with this. Again, I think it turned out pretty well.

The topics here cover a wide range—I wanted every area of 47 and Diana's lives to seem completely shrouded in mystery, even to Victoria. I don't want to give the impression I'm advocating a particular stance on an issue (such as the topic of 47xDiana as a couple). The chapter "gossip" is developed/taken from NPC conversations in-game, the _Hitman: Full Disclosure_ app, and from cutscenes and character interactions spanning the entirety of the _Hitman_ universe. So, please enjoy and let me know what you think. :D

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Pipeline**

The security team gossiped like little girls.

When she'd first come to live with Diana, the hearsay had circled the house like a virus. Mostly it revolved around, understandably, Diana. Diana was rich, beautiful, extravagant in living, with a team of hired guards more suited to a professional gangster than a wealthy heiress. If it had been as simple as stopping burglars or protecting valuable goods, an advanced security system would have sufficed. But the lengths the woman had gone to ensure the safety of herself and her "child" went well beyond safeguarding against common thieves.

She was either extremely paranoid, or extremely dangerous.

In the case of the former, it was overkill. Maybe she was avoiding money-grubbing relatives. Maybe she feared a criminal breaking in to steal some precious family gem. Perhaps the woman simply had more money than she knew what to do with. Or maybe...she was totally nuts. Guard detail, peculiar occupation it was, dealt with all types.

In the case of the latter, it sent speculation flying. Perhaps she was on the lam from a jilted lover. Or maybe she was the wife of a powerful crime lord, the mansion housing evidence to be used in court. Perhaps she herself was a thief. Perhaps _anything_ when you hired 30 armed men to stand guard at your front door.

Then there was Victoria, who added a whole new layer of conjecture to the mix. Of course, there was the obvious of obvious—that Victoria was Diana's child—but even that bit of hearsay got tossed back and forth as a "maybe, maybe not." Even at Victoria's youngest, no one, Victoria included, would have mistaken Diana for a "Mom." Her focus had always been primarily "the work." She had never been neglectful, and she'd certainly gone above and beyond the call of duty in keeping Victoria safe. She'd put her career, her reputation, and her very life on the line to spare her a terrible fate. Motherly or not, Victoria was indebted to Diana, in ways she could likely never repay.

Nonetheless, Diana was a woman of drive, of focus. And her viewfinder was permanently fixed on 47. Even her and Diana's "alone time" comprised mostly of stories of Agent 47. He seemed, many times, her only thought. With every tale, there was "the look," the one Victoria knew was reserved for 47 and 47 alone. Victoria wondered if Diana was even aware of the face she made when she spoke of him. (Probably not.)

But if Diana was placeholder for "Mom," then it stood to reason that somewhere, there was a "Dad." Just who and what _he_ was simply added to the already huge and needlessly elaborate web of drama, spun by the vivid imaginations of the staff. Not that Victoria minded the gossip. It kept her company on those lonely days when Diana completely immersed herself in work.

Incidentally, the earliest hearsay came from the guards stationed outside her bedroom door.

"Who do you reckon's the father?"

"With this level of security? It's probably better if we _didn't_ ask."

"Who says she's the client's daughter? Maybe she hijacked the kid and brought her here. You know, a ransom or some such."

"Nah. I've seen them together. That kid wasn't brought here by force. And besides, did you see that _red_ hair?"

As the months passed and she grew bolder in her exploration of the house, the later bands of gossip came via air vents, cracked doors, and the occasional stakeout at the top of the steps.

"What the hell kind of rich lady needs _this_ many hired guns?"

"And did you hear her at today's briefing? I've been at this security gig for eight years and I've never heard anything like it. You'd think breaking into this place was breaking into the damn Pentagon!"

"No shit! Did you see the rotation schedule? What's that about?"

"I don't know what this lady did. But she sure pissed someone off."

Then of course there were the "Our client is hot!" and "I'd do her!" commentary that Victoria typically walked away from. She didn't like the men who talked about Diana that way. She didn't care to hear it.

Gossip persisted through the years, even after the "incident" with the Agency and her very relieved, very tearful reunion with Diana. 47's shot had been non-lethal all along, the ordeal an elaborate orchestration by the recovering heiress to secure Victoria's freedom. And so, life resumed. Except now, that life included 47. Initially, he'd kept away, communicating only by cell. But then, one day, he'd simply shown up—in all his menacing glory—at their front door.

Rumors shot off like a rocket from his first step inside the house.

"Whoa, Nelly! Would you take a look at the bald dude!"

"Ten bucks says he's the father."

"I don't know. He doesn't seem like the 'fatherly type.'"

"And Miss Burnwood's what? Mary Poppins? He's the first man to roll through here in three years _and_ he has one-hundred percent security clearance. Father or not, he's somebody Miss Burnwood trusts. That's huge."

"Victoria likes him too. She ran right up to him. I can barely get her to say hello."

"Did I say ten? I meant fifty."

Victoria often wondered what Diana thought of the gossip mill running rampant inside her house. She couldn't be so oblivious as to not know, unless she purposefully chose to ignore it. For Victoria's part, the rumors served as fuel for her own fantastical, and dare she say, _romantic_ ideas of Diana and the elusive Hitman. There were a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue, questions she'd never been quite brave enough to ask aloud. Questions that the service guards voiced amongst themselves in the corner spaces of the house.

"That there's what you call a 'Power Couple.'"

"Don't know what kind of 'coupling' you're into, but freezer pops generate more heat. They interact as if they're phoned in on a conference call."

"He's right. I've seen them together. They never kiss. They never touch. They don't even sit next to each other on the couch. If they're a 'thing,' they've sure got funny ways of showing it."

"So they're not into PDA. Haven't you seen the looks he gives her?"

"You mean the same look _everyone_ gives her? Big deal. Burnwood's hot."

"Not that kind of look, asshole."

As his visits increased, so too did the grapevine of gossip. Even the chef had jumped onboard, eager to lap up whatever bits of juicy intrigue trickled down the pipe. He lingered serving food, busying himself with wiping up supposed "spills." He propped the kitchen door ajar during meals and while preparing food. And with the number of wine refills he offered, you'd have thought Diana and 47 were the biggest lushes in the state.

The guards were no better. Too often Victoria would catch them ear-to-glass against a door frame, eavesdropping on the mysterious "couple." (Victoria was in no position to judge. She often stood in the midst of them, with her own ear pressed to the wall.) And the first time 47 spent the night, Victoria was fairly certain the guards' heads would explode.

"Told you, man! I told you!"

"I don't know. I still don't buy it."

"The man sleeps upstairs. He has dinner with the client. And he's not even given a security check at the front gate."

"Jerkoff has a keycard to the second floor. Some of our guys ain't even allowed through the back door!"

"Shit's messed up. I mean, dude just shows up out of the blue one day and he's an instant VIP. I've been here three years and can't take a leak without somebody breathing down my neck."

"Maybe he's her husband. It'd explain why he and the kid seem so close."

"Think what you want. I've guarded mobster dens less crooked than this joint."

Then of course there was the matter of 47's "profession." A classy man dressed in an expensive suit, wandering in and out without so much as a name or a frisk. Some of the men simply turned a blind eye, knowing full well the shady nature of their own job. But others were too taken with curiosity to let the issue slide.

"What do you think he does for a living?"

"Businessman. He's a traveling businessman. Explains why he's out so much."

"'Businessman' my left nut."

"He dresses like one. And he carries a briefcase."

"So do drug dealers."

"Guy's no drug dealer. But if he's a businessman, then I'm the Earl of Essex."

Victoria couldn't blame them for being nosy. Secrecy and confidentiality went hand-in-hand with Diana and 47, but that knowledge did little to quell even her own curiosity, she who was privy to her caretakers' "softer sides." In fact, Victoria considered the security team's "little get-togethers" an important source of intel, particularly as they pertained to Diana and 47's relationship with herself.

"That bald guy gives me the creeps. But I have to admit, he's good with the girl."

"He's always watching her...the kid and Miss Burnwood both."

"I can't figure it out. He'll act something like a regular dad one minute, and then the next he seems almost...confused."

"You notice how Miss Burnwood slips off to the side when they're together? She just stands there with this intense look, watching. I wonder what it is she sees…"

"Eh. The whole lot of them are nuts."

Victoria stifled a giggle, her eyes peering in between the cracks of the dining room double doors. She had taken post not ten minutes before, eavesdropping in on one of the security shift's evening "breaks." She listened with rapt delight, eager to catch any important observational tidbit the security team might cough up. Seconds passed as she zeroed in, but the opening in the door went dark as a kitchen guard patrolled past. Victoria jumped up and back to avoid detection. Stumbling backwards, her body slammed into what felt like a smooth, stone wall. Her head tilted back on response.

Staring down at her was the coldly impassive face of Agent 47.

"Oops."

It was the first word to come to mind, and immediately Victoria could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks.

"Indeed."

Victoria did an about-face, eyes locking with 47's as she hastily smoothed the front of her dress.

"I was, uh…"

"You should be upstairs." His look was chiding, but there was mild amusement hidden in the undercurrent of his tone. "We're leaving in five minutes. I believe Diana's words were, 'Pull yourself together.'"

"I'm together!" Victoria assured, giving him a small salute.

47 raised a brow at her bubbly response. Though it _was_ the teensiest bit embarrassing, Victoria couldn't suppress the excitement she felt at the three of them going _out_ for dinner. Normally, their meals were prepared in-house by the chef, with drinks in the dining room and bed by ten.

 _But tonight!_

They were eating _outside_ the walls of the mansion at an _actual_ restaurant with waiters and white tablecloths and a room full of people ordering stupid expensive food. ...Which wasn't a great deal different than what she experienced at home, except _this_ time they were out and about with 47. The three of them. With _no_ guards.

She couldn't wait.

"Diana will never let you leave the house without a jacket."

The firmness of his tone suggested he wouldn't either.

"I've got it covered."

And like spotlight on center-stage, their attention was instantly drawn to the steps. There, in all her heart-wrenching beauty, was Diana, descending the staircase in an alluring, but sophisticated black dress. Her face was poised, as usual, her smile small but confident as her strappy high heels clicked rhythmically against the steps. She near-floated to the base of the stairs, never once breaking stride as she glided forward to stand opposite the equally dapper Agent 47. And there, dangling off the ends of her manicured fingers was a bright, pink jacket, the perfect compliment to Victoria's bright, pink dress.

"Here you are, Victoria." She handed off the piece of clothing without a single glance in the younger's direction.

Victoria muttered a soft "Thanks," clutching the item in-hand as she watched Diana perform a visual once-over of 47. Her face was impassive in the search, revealing nothing, until her eyes came to rest in the dead center of his broad-reaching chest.

"My, my! What happened here?" Expertly, her small hands moved to smooth the disarray along the front of his shirt. "Tsk, tsk. It's not like you to look so disheveled." Her tone was teasing.

47 shot a sideways glance in Victoria's direction. She turned beet red, recalling her earlier fumble.

"There we are. All fixed," Diana tutted, her voice like chimes in a soft breeze as she ran her fingers along the shoulders of his tux. "Handsome as ever."

And in those three words, all of Victoria's embarrassment melted away. It dawned on her then that she had not _once_ seen her caretakers touch. Nor had they ever complimented one another in a capacity outside work. Her head fell to the side a little, drinking in the black-clad perfection of her caretakers, convinced more than ever that the pair of them had been genetically molded to fit together. Professionalism be damned.

With keys in hand and reservations to make, the trio collected themselves and turned to leave. As they advanced towards the door, Victoria glanced back, watching as the entirety of the guard circled not-so-surreptitiously through the hall. Laughing to herself, she slunk her arms into the sleeves of her jacket and shut the door tight behind her.

They'd be the talk of the town tonight.


	9. She Must Be Special

Author's Notes: *rubs hands together* I've been wanting to post this since just about the beginning of the fic. But I felt the story needed a little build-up/foundational work if I was to do the idea justice. I feel like it paints Diana in somewhat of a negative light, though that isn't the intention, just a byproduct of the point I'm trying to drive home. I do hope you won't think negatively of how her character is portrayed (I don't). It's hard for me to imagine Diana any different, seeing as her entire world revolves around work/Agent 47/avoiding death. When you live that kind of life, a lot of what "normal" people take for granted become liabilities. And I feel like Diana and 47 have a very strong (if not somber) understanding of this.

I'd also like to point out the chapter title. "She Must Be Special" is actually the name of one of the _Hitman: Absolution_ teaser trailers prior to the game's release. It's one of my favorite trailers for the game (I recommend you look it up on YouTube). It also fits the tone of the chapter really well.

Let me know what you guys think!

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

" **She Must Be Special"**

Diana didn't seem to like kids.

She hadn't really _said_ so, in so many words. Victoria had learned to pay attention more to the things Diana _didn't_ say, rather than focus on the half-truths of the spoken word. (Though where the heiress was concerned, it was easy to dismiss almost anything outside the topic of 47 as something Diana "didn't like." Her demeanor was set to "indifferent" pretty much by default.)

But Victoria knew Diana well enough to discern the ever-so-slight variations in her "smile," her voice tone, the carefully guarded lines and contours of her face. Diana's mannerisms were programmed to be as pleasant and socially acceptable as needed to move about undetected. It didn't matter what she felt or thought. All that mattered was what other people _believed_ she felt and thought. 47 was much the same, utilizing said tactic for assignments and infiltrations on the job. It was how two of the world's most conspicuous—and lethal—creatures could pass twenty-plus years seamlessly blending in.

So while Diana _voiced_ nothing, her body language spoke loudly to her opinion of kids.

She'd first noticed it out on the town. Diana would make reservations at some fancy, Five-Star restaurant, requesting in earnest that they be seated _away_ from children, preferably in the more isolated sections of the dining lounge. The host, Victoria noted, always acquiesced to her request. Perhaps it was Diana's charm, comely looks, or the realization that she was a woman who could drop some serious cash. Either way, she and Diana would be escorted to a "VIP" area far from the commotion of the other guests. With napkins in lap and a wine list a mile long—no elbows on the table, _please_ —Diana fell into character, her posh persona shining through as she fingered the menu for whatever ridiculously expensive entrée fancied her equally ridiculous and superfluous standard of living.

But even in seclusion, Diana watched. Victoria noted how, every few moments, Diana's eyes would dart to and fro, as if anticipating an attack. Her personal effects were kept at a wrist flick distance, her posture easy, but alert. Occasionally, a child seated across the room would cry, or scream, or make a scene.

And that's when Diana would make "the face."

She'd purse her lips _just so_ , her eyebrows raising just the _teensiest_ bit. Sometimes she'd even jump, startled by the outburst. (That usually elicited a sigh and an intense rolling of the eyes.) It was strange to see the always-perfectly-composed heiress pushed to wits end at the sound of a fussy child. But Victoria supposed everyone had their limits. Even Diana.

Then there was the "incident" in front of Diana's favorite Chicago boutique. They had driven into downtown for a bit of "weekend shopping." Diana had sauntered out of the car, Victoria in tow, when bounding down the walkway came a small child, all frizzy blonde hair and fat cheeks. She half-screamed, half-laughed as she zipped Superman-style towards them, tagging the sides of Diana's legs as she passed, and around the corner to an ice cream shop on Main. Seconds later, the presumed mother whizzed past, shouting an "I'm sorry!" in their direction as she scampered after the girl in hot pursuit.

Diana "humphed" in response, eyeballing the skin the girl had clipped with a sort of offended disgust. Straightening herself to her full height, she smoothed the fabric of her dress, muttering something along the lines of "wild brat" under her breath. With her clothes and appearance in order, they'd continued on into the store.

Victoria wondered then what Diana had been like as a little girl.

The most recent encounter occurred, incidentally enough, in the company of Agent 47. They had gone into town, at Victoria's urging (acting as "normal" as the trio were ever capable of). They'd eaten, shopped a bit, and best of all, she'd been sandwiched between 47 and Diana the entire trip. Other kids her size, she'd noticed, flitted off on their own, deserting their parents in favor of friends. Others were unaccompanied altogether. It seemed strange to Victoria who, since her emancipation from "The Lab," had yet to take ten steps without Diana, 47, or a guy with an earpiece and a concealed carry. She often wondered, if raised in a different environment, she might think and act more like a "regular kid." But her circumstances were not ordinary, and she liked keeping 47 and Diana close. She'd hugged their arms most of the trip, scrunching their wrists as close to one another as either allowed. (Thankfully, neither seemed to mind or notice the closeness.)

As the sky turned pink, she and her caretakers boarded the Chicago "L." Once again, she'd found herself scrunched between 47 and Diana, her head bobbing back and forth between them. There on the train, sitting opposite the trio, was a mother and child, the baby in her arms scarcely a year old. Facing each other as they were, it was hard for Victoria not to notice the demure pair—more specifically, the bald little bundle cradled reverently in the mother's arms. Victoria had never seen a baby up close—or ever, really—her interactions limited to Diana, 47, and the mansion's well-armed security personnel.

With 47 and Diana silent, and nothing to do on the train but sit, Victoria openly observed the mother and child. The mother, young and pretty, smiled, bobbing the baby ever so gently in her lap. The child, donned in a soft pink onesie, gurgled, content and safe and completely trusting in the arms of her parent. It was obvious in that moment, there existed between them an incomprehensible bond that tugged Victoria's heart. And she wondered, if ever in her genetically enhanced life, a person had looked at her the way the mother looked at her precious baby girl.

Lost in musing, she hadn't noticed the pretty young mother staring back. But the sound of giggling jolted her back to reality—and to the reciprocating gaze of the mom—as the tiny baby extended an impossibly tiny arm in the direction of Agent 47.

Reflexively, Victoria's head jerked as her eyes fell to her caretaker's face, wondering how the impassive hitman might react. Would he glare? Would he look away? But to her surprise, 47's features shown with a sort of muted curiosity, his head tilted forward ever so slightly as he studied the pint-sized creature gaping up at him. The child reacted numbly at first, her mouth frozen in an "o" as she and 47 stared one another down. But after an intense second of study, the baby broke into a fit of gurgles, flailing a tiny balled fist in delight.

The joy was infectious. Soon, Victoria caught herself giggling as well. She turned to Diana then, smiling, but Diana had pulled a compact out of her purse, applying a fresh layer of medium-brown matte to her sculpted lips. The tenderness of the moment seemed to escape her. She clasped the compact shut, diverting her focus to the far end of the train. Victoria frowned, turning her attention back to the mother and 47. Though 47 said nothing, his demeanor was not unkind. She even thought she saw the _barest_ hint of a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. How strange it was for 47, the ruthless assassin, to show fondness and care where the socially manicured heiress showed only indifference and disdain.

As the train pulled to a stop, the mother collected her mountain of things, the baby still wiggling and cooing in her arms. She moved to stand, but paused just long enough to address the trio, her blue eyes sparkling with joy.

"You have a beautiful daughter."

She and the child exited the train, leaving herself and 47—if the expression on his face was any indication—in a state of shock. They'd looked at one another then, 47's eyes peering into her own with an intensity she was certain shot straight to the soul. After mere seconds of study, he raised his head, eyes shifting focus to the red-headed heiress at his right. Victoria followed suit, wondering if Diana's reaction was as startled as their own.

But Diana wasn't moved. In fact, she hadn't even turned to face them. If she'd heard the woman's comment, she didn't show it. She raised a hand to tap at the perfectly coiffed bun at the back of her head, before bringing it to rest calmly in her lap. Contained and orderly and characteristically perfect.

Diana looked away the rest of the ride home.

Victoria replayed the events of that day over and over in her mind as she sat, knees folded up under herself, on the luxurious carpet of Diana's bedroom floor. Behind her was Diana, seated likewise, her silken babydoll nightie a stark contrast to Victoria's cotton top and bottoms. A fat paddle brush in hand, Diana wove the bristles up and down in gentle strokes, straightening the tangles out of Victoria's dark red locks.

"Such lovely hair."

Victoria watched Diana's face in the reflection of her full-length mirror. It was rare, but when work "finished early" and Diana wasn't on call speaking to some contact halfway around the world in French, she'd beckon Victoria into the master bedroom for what Diana had eloquently coined, "Pamper Time."

Sometimes they'd paint their nails. Other times, they'd try on jewelry and fancy perfume. But Victoria's favorite "pamper," bar none, was brushing. She had _always_ adored Diana's hair—the texture, the color...even the _smell_ was beautiful. How Victoria had wished her own hair was as striking. Not that Victoria's hair was _bad_. It just wasn't as nice as Diana's. Hers was toothpick straight; Diana's held a subtle wave. Her hair was a deep, dark red. Diana's hair was red as well, but brighter. And though Victoria didn't know how, she could have sworn Diana's hair even _felt_ prettier.

But as much as she liked brushing Diana's hair, she still liked having _her_ hair brushed _more_. It was therapeutic, in a way, and strangely...personal—like keeping a shared secret. And there was never an instance when Diana looked more serene. Her hands would rise and fall with methodical, almost reverential strokes, her face bearing an uncharacteristically warm smile.

"You get more beautiful everyday."

That was the other thing Victoria liked about "pampering"—the praise. In the confines of her personal quarters, Diana was oddly doting. There was almost always some complimentary remark about how "lovely" Victoria was, how "beautifully" she'd grown, how "adorable" she looked in whatever clothing Diana had picked special for her to wear. ...Not that Diana was ever mean or unsavory. She had not once, in the years they'd lived together, been belittling or demeaning with her words. But "doting" clearly wasn't a trait programmed into Diana's DNA. She was kind, but not gushingly so, and though Victoria knew her compliments sincere, it was still strange to hear them released from the mouth of the steely-tempered heiress.

Victoria once again thought of their strange encounter with the woman on the train, of their random run-ins with children and families on the street. She thought of how detached Diana seemed from it all, how kids seemed more a hindrance than a joy, a burden to be bothered with than a gift to be preserved. How impassive and disinterested she behaved. She thought of the woman on the train, 47's reaction coupled with her own, of Diana's presumed indifference to the frailty and preciousness of life.

Victoria alone seemed exempt from Diana's haughty opinion of kids. She hadn't given much attention to it in the past, but the more 47 came around, the more intertwined their lives and the more liberal Diana became with tenderness and praise, the more Victoria puzzled.

Other than her genetic enhancements, what made her different from other kids? What had she done to curb such favor? Why was her life of greater value than the rest?

...What was it that made _her_ so special?


	10. Birds of A Feather

Author's Notes: I have a confession. I'm not entirely sure how this chapter happened. My original intent for the story got lost...somewhere about a third into the fic. My stories are organic in nature, sort of forming themselves as the dialog and interactions pan out. I guess this was something that needed to be said without my realizing. Oh well.

There's more 47-Diana-Victoria interaction in this piece than any other, which surprises me because I try to keep the tone of my stories to that of the actual games. ...Which is to say I try to say a lot without saying very much, because that's sort of the magic of _Hitman,_ IMO _._ And for that reason, this chapter is the longest running yet. I hope to get back to brevity in the next one, but we'll have to wait and see.

Speaking of next chapter, I'm thinking of mixing things up and following up on an earlier Author's Notes, where I flirted with the idea of posting a chapter from the perspective of Agent 47. What I want to do should tie in nicely with some of what's mentioned in this chapter, though I don't want to do one chapter from multiple perspectives (keeps the content fresh). Again, we'll see.

By the way, if you haven't read either of the _Hitman_ novels, I strongly urge you to do so. The first one is especially good (the second one is kinda "meh"). Though some of the content contradicts the latest _Hitman_ game (not that I/O are sticklers for continuity), it does give you a pretty good glimpse into 47's opinion of Diana, in particular that he sees her as a kind of "angel" (a word taken straight from the book). That has nothing to do with my fic, per se, but it does give the impression that 47 puts Diana on a sort of pedestal...while simultaneously pushing his buttons, considering she's the only character in _Hitman_ who can elicit an outburst from him (i.e. _Blood Money_ ).

 _parfait_ = French for "perfect" (Diana speaks six languages, fluently, one of which I am convinced is French.)

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Birds of A Feather**

The thrill of it was almost too much.

She'd read about them in books, heard about them from the mansion guards, even seen one once on TV. But never in a thousand years would she have imagined standing _in the midst_ of one, a multitude of nameless faces surrounding her in a scene she could only describe as _surreal_. Never had she consumed so many sights, smells, and colors, nor had she ever witnessed such a mass of fluttering people confined to such a compact space. It was invigorating...though a part of her felt just a tad itchy. She wondered if it was the effect of her prolonged near-isolation at the manor.

Standing on tiptoe, Victoria stretched for a better view, miffed that nearly every person in the crowd, save the smaller children, were taller than she. Eyeballing her surroundings, she took note of a box and nearby prop. She could always use those as a boost, and she considered it, but ultimately reasoned against it. She didn't think either of her "guardians" would approve of her climbing the decorations. The action would draw more attention than they normally allowed, 47 and Diana both having made a point to "blend in" at the outset of their excursion. Instead, she rocked on the balls of her feet, waiting for the crowd to thin as people moved to and fro visiting various booths and attractions.

To her left, a man walked by carrying a little girl on his shoulders. To her right stood 47, a good head taller than most of the crowd, his eyes bouncing back and forth as people waddled around him. He had "dressed down" for the occasion, opting for a plain blue turtleneck and fitted jeans so as not to "stand out." And Victoria thought him more or less successful...save for his impressive physique, bald head, and uncommonly hardened face. He'd captured the attention of more than a few passing women, though he'd seemed too preoccupied with surveying potential threats to be bothered with their appreciative stares.

Diana too had hooked some admiring glances, not surprising given her slim and trim form packaged neatly inside a pale green wrap dress and strappy high heels. Her face, though not quite "hard," was flatly annoyed. She had never been one to mingle with the general public, and Chicago's "Annual Fall Festival Extravaganza" was essentially a parade of all things Diana didn't like—games, kids, sugar, and noise. If 47 hadn't insisted—threatened maybe?—she come along, she most likely would have stayed home.

It had really only been "thinking out loud" on Victoria's part. When she had expressed interest in seeing a fair, it was 47, of all people, who suggested they go. Perhaps she had said it with a bit more zeal than intended, or perhaps it was that his last visit had been from four months before. Whatever his reasons, 47 stood determined to see her desire through. Diana had been reluctant to come, saying he was "protection enough" for escorting their charge through downtown. Victoria missed the conversation that followed—47 excused both himself and Diana to "discuss the matter"—but when they reemerged, plans were made and a date was set.

The fair was exciting and new, but the knowledge that both her caretakers had sacrificed a perfectly workable Saturday to "goof off" was more magical than the fair itself. She couldn't force either to enjoy themselves, but she could demonstrate her appreciation by enjoying _herself._ In that way, it would be a sacrifice well spent.

They'd arrived only minutes before, but already Victoria was pumped...and hungry. She'd noticed an increase in her appetite of late, and was somewhat ashamed to admit she had been eating Diana out of house and home. ...Well, not _literally_ of course, but Diana and their chef both had noticed Victoria's recent and heightened _appreciation_ for food. She wasn't sure what had triggered the change, but she did know that when she needed to eat, she needed to eat. And right in that moment Victoria knew, _she needed to eat_.

Feeling the workings of crankiness in her gut, Victoria scanned the surrounding booths for anything that might provide a quick and satisfying bite. Within seconds, her keen eye caught sight of a far-off stand selling food. Starved, she grabbed 47's hand, tugging at his arm in the direction of the cart. His eyes widened at the sudden jolt, but the cravings of her body overrode good sense. She thought she caught a glimpse of Diana sighing as she charged ahead, but was too preoccupied with a "Giant Salted Pretzel" sign to stop.

As they reached the back of a _mercifully_ short line, it occurred to Victoria then that she'd not only bulled the crowd, but dragged the world's most dangerous assassin alongside her, a clear breach of etiquette and personal space. Grimacing, she feared she might have pushed her luck. She lifted her eyes timidly to gauge the reaction of the intimidating hitman, but was surprised to find him scanning the menu, his demeanor steady and his face calm.

Surprised by his response, or lack of one, she snuck a glance at her surroundings. She'd half-expected a crowd standing off to the side, pointing and whispering amongst themselves...but found that no one seemed to have paid her, 47, or their little jaunt across the street any mind. They were all too preoccupied with their own activities to care.

Though it did make her wonder. What did other people see when she, 47, and Diana were together? What did they look like walking down the street? How were they perceived by the casual passerby? A man, woman, and child thrown together perchance? A husband and wife, taking their daughter to the fair? 47 and Diana, "parents" at the mercy of their rambunctious kid?

The thought made her smile. But it faded just as quickly when she thought of how her _caretakers_ might respond. She could already hear Diana in her head, rationalizing it away with her Diana-like reasoning in her lilting, Diana-like voice.

 _Of course they see us that way. Given our differences in age and the comparable social bearings of 47 and myself, it makes sense to assume that we are a 'family unit.' It's the most logical deduction to make._

47 would say nothing. Or he'd simply nod in agreement with Diana. And then the matter would be dropped.

"What do you think?"

The hitman's even voice jolted Victoria out of her mental musings and back into the fair.

 _Oh, yeah. Food._

She'd forgotten she was hungry.

Eyeballing the menu, Victoria bounced back and forth, unable to decide what to pick. Everything sounded good...though admittedly, some of what was listed was incomparable to anything she'd eaten before. A pretzel was easy enough, but what was a "corn dog?" How in the world could cotton be candy? And she didn't even want to _pronounce_ the word "nacho" for fear of saying it wrong. The more time she spent outside the mansion, the more remarkable and infeasible the world became.

When it was all said and done, they'd walked away with at least one—in some cases, two—of every item at the stand. Stepping up to the cashier, she'd felt foolish and insecure, but 47 had taken the lead and ordered for them both. He'd paid what they owed and led her off to the side to wait. They stood in silence for the food, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

He understood.

He knew what she felt.

He too remembered when the world was confusing and new.

Now, seated at a nearby table and bench, she wondered what it had been like for 47, way back at the beginning. How had he handled being thrust into the unknown, friendless and without identity, wandering aimlessly without purpose or reason? She, at least, had the comfort of knowing there was someone to turn to. She had Diana, and now too 47. But as best as she could piece together the fragmented bits of his past, he'd had no one.

Once again she marveled at the shared likeness of their circumstances. Except, in 47's case, he hadn't been saved. He'd been thrown to the wolves and left to decode and interpret life as he saw fit.

Alone.

He ate quietly at her side, a slice of extra cheesy pizza in hand. To an onlooker, he would have appeared the same as any other visitor at the fair. But to Victoria, he looked heavy, the weight of life's unpleasantness playing out across the surface of his unnatural eyes.

She wondered then if the day had been such a good idea. She wondered if there were anything he could see or do that didn't carry with it a painful memory. She wondered if ever there was a second he didn't feel completely and hopelessly alone.

She wondered, soberly, if that very thing would have happened to her.

"What do you think?"

This time it was Diana's voice grounding her back to reality. The heiress had caught up with them just shortly after collecting the food, selecting a table for them to sit, eat, and rest. Seated centerfold across from herself and 47, she'd declined all offerings of food—"fat-saturated garbage," as she'd put it— save for a bottle of spring water 47 had ordered special for her.

"The snacks are great!"

And they were, though it amazed Victoria how different the food was here, compared to the food she was used to eating back at the Burnwood estate. Diana's chef cooked Five-Star meals day and night, and was renowned as a world famous culinary ar- _tist_ (in his words, anyway). She'd never once eaten anything at the manor she would consider _bad_. But corn dogs and ice cream cones were in a league all their own. Fair food was one-part grease, two-parts sugar, and all parts indulgence. It was a wonder Diana hadn't fainted from the carb count alone.

"You sure you don't want anything?" Victoria held out the "nacho"—she was pretty sure she knew how to say it right in her head—tray in offering, but Diana backed away in thinly veiled disgust.

"No. No, thank you," was her dignified reply.

She turned to 47 then, shrugging, but was surprised to find him eyeing Diana with an aggravated scowl. It startled her when he spoke up.

"I would have chosen something more substantial for you, _Diana_ "—his snarky tone of voice was more surprising than the fire in his eyes—"but the only thing with fewer calories than spring water was _air_."

Diana froze in spot, clearly as taken aback as Victoria at his icy remark. He said nothing further, but merely stared Diana down, his posture challenging and his face hard. The heiress said nothing at first, as if waiting for whatever explanation had stoked his rage. When none came, she grew equally indignant, placing said bottle of water off to the side to stare 47 down.

"Excuse _me_ , but not everyone at this table materializes out of bed in the morning so ' _parfait_.' _Some_ of us have to _work_ at it."

Neither spoke above the sound of quiet conversation, but the venom in their interaction made Victoria nervous. She'd not once, in the few gatherings they'd had, heard either speak to the other with anything less than mutual respect (or in another language—French was an almost sure sign Diana was ticked). They had always operated in perfect sync, communicating on a spiritual level that superseded words. Victoria had simply thought it impossible for one to have any ire or disgruntlement with the other.

Clearly, there were sides of Victoria's guardians she'd never seen.

"Tragic, Diana, truly. I can't imagine the struggle of applying blush and lipstick _every_ morning. No doubt it's the most grueling thirty seconds of your day."

Her eyes burning with a fire of their own, the heiress' voice darkened. "Tricks of the trade, don't you know? The blush, the lipstick, the mascara...the masks. A new morning, a new identity. Though I assure you, _Agent_ , I've invested far more than thirty seconds."

"But they're _always_ perfect."

It was she who spoke then, halting their verbal spar. She'd lowered her eyes to avoid facing either, her hands wrung together in her lap like knots. Victoria hadn't meant to get involved, but the sound of her guardians' bickering hurt. And...she couldn't help but sympathize with 47 who, like her, needed far more than fluffing and a bit of makeup to "blend in."

"You make it look so easy. So effortless." The self-consciousness was overwhelming. She lowered her head further. "I've never seen you _not_ know what to do. Or what to say. Or how to act. It's...frustrating."

To that, there was only silence. She kept her head bowed, ashamed not only by her weakness, but by the admittance of it. Nor was she keen on hearing Diana's response. The atmosphere was thick and tense, with Victoria too scared to look up.

But her fears were unfounded, as no reprimand came, only the sound of a soft laugh.

"Well now. Seems I'm a better actress than I thought."

Her words and the gentle tone of her voice coaxed Victoria out from hiding behind her hair.

"I always thought it was _me_ playing catch up," she confessed with a rueful smile. "I'm not like you...either of you." Diana's eyes danced between herself and 47. "Keeping pace with the two of you is...challenging."

Victoria balked then, wondering if walking through the fair she'd somehow stumbled into a parallel universe. _Diana_ , the most perfectly posh and pristine "princess" of Burnwood Manor, trying to keep stride with _her_? She turned to gape at 47, his look not quite as dramatic as her own, but astonishment clearly shown in the genetically manipulated features of his face. And in that uncharacteristic surprise it occurred to Victoria—47 looked at Diana the same as she.

Incredulous, Victoria jumped to her guardian's defense. "Are you kidding me? Life happens and you don't even flinch. You don't even have to try. You flick your wrist and the whole world obeys." The words that followed dampered her spirit further. "...I can't even order food for myself."

And to her surprise, it was 47 who offered comfort.

"It gets easier."

His words were directed at her, but his eyes fixated solely on Diana's face. She reciprocated his gaze, a look of both apology and forgiveness and a strange understanding staring back.

And just like that. No harm done. All was forgiven.

"What a bunch of _ninnies_ we are," Diana tutted, straightening her posture so that she sat fully erect. "Carrying on about such _nonsense_ while the afternoon just flitters away." Determinedly, she reached over, snatching—very primly, of course—a chip from the cast aside tray of nachos. She bit the ends of it off experimentally, the look that followed suggesting she did not share Victoria's opinion of its appeal.

"That's terrible."

"Stop eating garbage," was the hitman's off-handed reply. "It doesn't suit you."

Diana laughed then—a real laugh—collecting the previously discarded bottle of water. "Thanks for the drink."

And so, the remainder of the day passed without incident, without so much as an irritated look. They navigated the crowds, toured booths, and dodged more than a few wayward kids. Victoria watched as men stepped up to play games in the hopes of impressing significant others, usually to no avail. She even flirted with the idea of playing a few herself, but was too self-conscious to try. (The whole group of them didn't like drawing attention to themselves.) The smell of good food filled the air, the colors of fall were bright, and perhaps—just perhaps—47 and Diana had a good time.

To be human was a miraculous thing.


	11. 47 Special - Two Women and A Hitman

Author's Notes: Okay folks. Here it is. My very first _Eavesdropping the Pancakes_ Special! I'd mentioned writing a chapter from the perspective of another character a couple chapters back. Judging from reader feedback and conversations in PM, the idea was well received and thus, I charged ahead and wrote this baby, told from the perspective of our beloved Agent 47. There's very little spoken text, but plenty of internal dialog, as I'm of the opinion that for every word 47 doesn't _say_ , are a dozen words he _thinks_ , especially as it pertains to Diana and Victoria.

The girls are featured in this installment as well, as the chapter title suggests, only this time you get to see them through the eye of the Hitman, which was a LOT of fun to write. I'm super pleased with how this turned out, so much so that it may be my favorite of what I've written for EtP thus far (which is likely the result of my favoring 47's character). Hopefully, you guys feel the same. I'm a staunch believer in canonical writing, and as important as it is to write Victoria well, it's that much more important to do the star character justice. I'm very curious to hear from you think.

Also, I reference a LOT of crap from previous games and books. There's even a nod to _Hitman: Damnation_ towards the middle/end of the chapter (referencing a botched/messy mission in Nepal), which I imagine most of you haven't read. I say this because I do NOT needlessly invest filler. I try to use as much canonical material as possible to pad my stories. It's more believable that way.

And for the purposes of setting/timeframe, this chapter takes place _before_ the events of "Birds of A Feather" (the previous chapter of this fic).

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **47 Special - Two Women and A Hitman**

The mansion was prettiest at dusk.

He'd never been one for the aesthetics of a place—security took precedence over looks—but even he could admit, the Burnwood Estate was an impressive sight. The multi-storied home, set against the backdrop of the water and manicured to eye-tingling perfection, made for easily the most luxurious abode he'd been privy to in the near-fifty years of his life. It would have been an astounding piece of real estate either way, but compared to the assortment of "safehouses" he'd bunkered down in through the years, Diana's mansion made him look and feel like a hobo camped in a cardboard box.

Not that he'd expect any less. Diana was about as "money" as money could get. The title of "heiress" was no exaggeration. She'd been raised as a baronetess, with all the privileges, "culturing," and mindsets it entailed. Her dress, her habits, her diet, her education, all speaking to the aristocratic, blue-blooded upbringing of someone descended from the noblest of noble parentage. To a lesser man, the prestige in Diana's DNA would be an intimidating thing. But to 47, it was simply part of what made Diana, Diana.

Victoria had once described Diana as a "princess stepped right out of a storybook." He could agree with that. Be it an email or the crackling of a telephone wire, 47 understood early on that Diana was a cut above the bulk of society. He'd heard not just the regality in her voice, but felt—yes, literally "felt"—the snooty superiority rolling off of her in droves, even as they communicated hundreds or even thousands of miles apart. And he'd imagined, more times than he was readily willing to admit, her seated in a chair, posture straight and perfectly styled hair rested against her delicate wrist, rattling off the objectives of his assignment in her silky voice, and wondering for all the world how one human being could be so infuriatingly poised.

Diana was no different in person than she was through any other means of contact. Her hair, apparel, and posture were all as he'd always envisioned, as were her manners and the strict air of professionalism he'd come to respect. But there was an acuity to his awareness of her standing face-to-face, a vibrant reality dulled by the barriers of geography and protocol that bordered unnerving. In a way, it was a feeling he didn't like and didn't for the life of him understand. In another way, it was a feeling he liked and understood stronger than he'd understood anything pertaining to human nature.

The ruthless workings of his brain said he should simply shoot her and move on. Anyone who had ever in any way been associated with himself had ended up no better for it, and 47 knew he lacked the willpower to cut ties. The very admittance of such a thing was weakness, and he and Diana both frowned upon weakness. She'd understand. The more…"sentimental" part of himself said she was his friend, the only one he had, who had put her own life in the line of fire to save his. Killing her would be completely and utterly against his personal code of honor. And the most honest part of himself knew he could never kill her without killing himself—literally and figuratively—because there was simply no living if it meant living in a world without Diana Burnwood.

Victoria, appropriately so, did not inspire quite the same emotionally convoluted response...though his affections for her were no less sincere. He marveled at the sympathy he felt for her, knowing to a great degree the sufferings she'd faced. Victoria was childish and unassuming, with a sweet and loving disposition out of place in a world of killers. Despite her "teen" physicality, she was by all rights barely older than a nine or ten-year-old in mental and emotional maturity. She'd been spared a life of unnamed horrors thanks to the combined efforts of Diana and himself, remembering with vagueness her time spent under care of "The Doctors." But memories were like corridors, and hellish ones especially weren't so easy to navigate. You could walk forward in body, but the mind had feet of its own, with a strong propensity for moving _backwards_.

And yet, for all her unorthodox upbringing, Victoria had proven resilient. With every phone call he made, every eavesdrop he concealed, every increasingly bizarre visit to Burnwood Estate, Victoria proved surprisingly sound. She laughed more, talked more, learned more, and between studies and protected exposure to the outside world, her confidence grew. It had been their wish from the beginning, his and Diana's, for Victoria to lead the kind of life he couldn't—a life not dictated by the genetic manipulations in her DNA. He wished her happy. He wished her safe. He wished her _normal_. He wished her sitting in a rocking chair, wrapped in a wool blanket, reading some ridiculous romance novel with a cup of hot cocoa and the snow falling peacefully outside.

He wished her free.

She could never fully escape what she was, but she could every bit escape what she was intended to be. It was a kind of revelation that Victoria would never fully comprehend, so meticulously preserved in the watchful—if not slightly suffocating—safety of Diana's care. She would never wander the back alleys alone, wondering what and why and for what purpose she was made. She would be spared the uncertainty of a life spent bouncing in and out of shadows. She would never know the fear of facing her own reflection and wondering if evil had been hardwired into her very blood.

He knew all those things and well. He understood the gift of choice, choices that had been denied him at his conception and beyond. He understood how programming and environment and the nefarious intentions of few men could take something as simple as a strand of life and breed death. He knew precisely how much you could _hate_ that which you prided yourself in most.

It was the "knowing" that had driven his resolve to fight on Victoria's behalf. Killing, adept at it as he was, was the last thing he would have wanted for _any_ child. Because there again, _he knew._ So did Diana. She might not have performed the hit, but Diana was just as guilty—some might argue even more so—as if she had pulled the trigger herself. Of course, housewives and sweet old ladies weren't exactly high on the list of Agency targets. Objectively speaking, the kinds of people the Agency "silenced" were the kinds society was more than happy to have fewer of. The world was no worse off with one less rapist, drug dealer, trafficker, or extremist nut. In that context, their "work" could very nearly be categorized as a public service. But life was life. And together, he and Diana had extinguished a lot of it.

47 drew the line at child experimentation, as did Diana. Even so, 47 questioned her motives. Diana wasn't one moved by sentiment, but by purpose. She operated so out of necessity, out of need to survive. So did anyone who shielded their face in wide-brimmed hats and padded their property with thirty armed guards and RFID door locks. She was single, childless, with multiple citizenships and a penchant for disguise. And she didn't exactly strike him as the "nurturing" type. Something had moved Diana beyond a sudden stroke of conscience. It wasn't just the need to rescue some poor, victimized girl. It was something deeper.

Diana wasn't a bad person. Though he'd be damned to admit it to anyone, 47 often thought of Diana as an angel, the kind of redemptory creature Father Vittorio spoke of during his brief occupation as a Sicilian gardener. Perhaps it was that redemptive quality that steered Diana's hand. But redemption for who? For him? For herself? Was raising Victoria penance for her own misguided deeds, or an opportunity to live vicariously a life of innocence and peace through the eyes of another?

Maybe it was arrogance on his part, but he believed Diana had done it—maybe not wholly, but to a pretty considerable extent—for him. She might not have lived his life exactly, but again, _she knew_. She knew what awaited Victoria, she understood on some levels his hurt, and in protecting Victoria, it was in a sense a way of protecting _him_. To give Victoria comfort, was to give him comfort. To give Victoria peace, was to give him peace. To give Victoria freedom was, in a manner of speaking, a pathway to freedom for him. Nothing could change what was done, who was dead, but such was the beauty of choice. It shaped the future.

Diana was loyal...to that which suited her needs, lifestyle, and personal motivations. Though she most likely served or had served as Handler for other Agents—yet _another_ thought more irksome than he cared to admit—he was undoubtedly the most successful hitman to ever come out of the ICA. His success gave Diana success. His money made her money. Their relationship was of mutual benefit. Their relationship was based on understanding and trust. In that way, he didn't think it unreasonable to assume she may have moved on his behalf.

Whatever Diana's reasons, her actions had struck a chord. "Clones" and genetic experimentations were very much society's bottom of the barrel. As life had proven time and again, they were little more than lab rats and playthings for twisted doctors or, in the case of himself, the product of some lowlife's seedy ambition. Victoria too had meant nothing to her captors. To Travis, she was a weapon. To Dexter, a means of harvesting exorbitant amounts of cash. She wasn't a person, just a tool to be used and abused until a newer, shinier model came along that could produce better results and a bigger profit.

47 was no fool. Benjamin Travis had been an ICA operative, privy no doubt to the details of his past as an experiment of Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer. No doubt Ort-Meyer's research had inspired, and in all likelihood spearheaded "The Victoria Project." Travis had all but admitted it in his final moments of life (for which 47 was proud to have personally ended). Victoria had been intended to be a more perfect version of himself. There was no proof of it, none he had ever stumbled upon personally, but he had a pretty good idea whose DNA had been used as the basis for Victoria's "construction."

And if _he_ had come to that conclusion, there was no limit to what Diana suspected—or outright knew and chose not to divulge—which both furthered his respect for her and fueled his belief that she had saved Victoria not only for Victoria's sake, but his as well. His course could not be altered, but she could give the girl a future that was bloodless and bright. Ruthless, mercenary Diana _cared_. About more than position and power. He, and by extension Victoria, were not experiments, nor statistics, nor superhumans with handguns. They were people, and Diana believed they deserved a chance.

Chances meant choices. Choices gave way to redemption. Neither were things that could have ever been possible without the existence (and helping hand) of Diana Burnwood.

...Even so. This _was_ Diana, and 47 was wizened enough to know that even her most decent of intentions came with a helping of personal agenda on the side. Her pleasant, professional demeanor was merely a cover for the private, complex nature beneath, with aspirations and desires so obscure he could only guess as to the riddles hidden between the honeyed words of her silk-like voice. There was always _far_ more to a story than Diana ever revealed. No doubt she'd produced merely a cliffnotes version of Victoria's, just enough to garner his sympathy and recruit support. It'd sufficed at the time, what with Diana lying bleeding on the tile of her bathroom floor, and his own mental state shaky at the pulling of the trigger that'd put her there. Of course, it had all worked itself out in the end. Pursuers killed. Victoria returned. Diana recovered. But it'd left a lot of probing questions in its wake.

Secretly, he wondered. He wondered about "The Lab," "The Doctors," Diana and Victoria's harried escape. About the research data, the scientists involved, the process used to accelerate growth. But above all, he questioned the DNA. Human beings didn't just materialize out of thin air. Not even clones. Creating life was much like following a recipe. Recipes required specific ingredients to achieve a desired result. Clones, like humans, were birthed of DNA—paternal DNA and _maternal_ DNA. It was the maternal DNA that had piqued his interest.

It was the kind of "piquing" that nagged his brain, the kind he tried best to ignore for fear of where the thoughts might lead. And he could do so easily enough when he was on his own, in the heat of missions, his focus elsewhere. But seated in the heart of Burnwood Estate, like he was now, made it harder to ignore the evidence blasting at him from all sides.

He watched from his surveillance post on the couch, as Diana brushed Victoria's hair. Victoria, her legs curled up under herself, sat contentedly on the living room floor, as her guardian weaved a paddle brush through the dark red strands of her long, dark red locks. It was a pastime becoming more commonplace in the Burnwood home. His last visit had painted a nearly identical picture, with Diana combing Victoria's hair just moments before bed.

 _Keeps the tangles out_ , Diana had explained.

Though 47 knew it was more the doting and care Victoria craved, than any feminine aversion to knots. Victoria had said so herself, in confidence. "Brushing" was one of the few instances when Victoria had Diana's sole, undivided attention, and thus became her favored activity between the two. Incidentally, it was one of his favored activities as well. ...Not that he cared anything about follicle grooming. (You couldn't brush hair you didn't have.) But it did provide an opening. It gave him an opportunity to _look_.

Seated so closely together, 47 could study the two individually, and as a pair. The smarter part of his brain told him not to, that there were some truths better left unknown, unearthed, but the inquisitive parts urged on. Sometimes the smarter part won, but most times his curiosity got the better of him. Tonight was one such time, where his eyes probed every curve, every line, every similarly proportioned silhouette. The hair was a particular point of interest, not so much for its length or texture, but for its color.

Statistically speaking, red hair was the least common hair color in the world. Only a small percentage of the total population carried the gene. Yet here, in one house, were two females—one of which was grown in a laboratory—with hair colors of varying shades of red. It was an oddity one could easily chalk up to chance or coincidence, but 47 knew better of his life than to stake such things on "rolls of the dice." What he had once thought "coincidences" were in fact products of some higher power's meticulous and often elaborately concealed manipulation, so much so that the two words were near interchangeable in his thinking. And nothing was more meticulous or God-orchestrated than a strand of precious, mind-blowingly intricate DNA.

Diana's hair was a brighter, lighter red. Victoria's hair was deeper, the red mixed with shades of ebony for a darker effect. The crimson coloring was implicating enough, but the blackness mixed with it was the real clincher. 47 was hairless, save for his brows, which were a coloring of something between black and very dark brown. What then, he wondered, would his coloring blended perfectly with the coloring of a bright, light red produce? What then about the eyes? The nose? The shape of the mouth?

The images in his mind were startling, and as always when he came a little too close to truth, he shut his brain off and walked away. Whatever he might have thought—thoughts he profusely ignored—were too much, too real, too intense. There was a guilt swirling within the truth of his conclusions that was too much to stand, thus he turned his gaze sharply to the left, trying to look at something, _anything_ that wasn't blood-hued hair.

It was some moments later before he composed himself enough to turn back, his line of sight falling instinctively to Diana. Instantly they locked eyes, the same mystical energy of the universe drawing their sight the way it had drawn their lives together for nearly twenty years. There was a secret and knowing concern in her gaze, but she voiced nothing. He held her attention like a lifeline, using her, as he always had, to ground himself back to the real world.

Victoria, childishness shining through, seemed oblivious to it all, focused instead on stroking the ears of the stuffed rabbit held so dearly to her chest. It was the same plush bunny he'd gifted her some months before, a compulsory act on his part to...well, he wasn't sure what his intent had been. He'd commissioned it and a yellow, plush bird as presents for Victoria, for reasons he hadn't quite reconciled with himself. These days, both the rabbit and bird were regulars around the Burnwood Manor. Victoria toted them room to room, between studies and when watching television. They slept in bed with her every night. He'd even dug one up, halfway out of the couch cushion—after he'd accidentally sat on it, of course.

She held the bunny close, lifting her head and smiling when she caught his eye. Holding the bunny up with one hand, she delicately gripped its right paw between two free fingers, waving it back and forth at him in hello.

Diana smirked at him from behind and he wondered, not for the first time, what kind of bonkers life he had lived and how in the hell it'd ever made its way to here.

Not that he was complaining. In truth, he was as content with his life as he had ever been. In fact, if not for those few nagging questions nipping at the edges of his brain, he might even go as far as to say he felt "happy." But "happy" wasn't an emotion or state of being 47 was accustomed to. He was much more inclined to restlessness and unease, so perhaps it was inevitable he drifted towards the secret places of his world. And at the crux of those "secret places" was Diana Burnwood herself.

It wasn't _just_ the physical similarities. In all honesty, it was more Diana's _actions_ that intrigued him than any facial or genetic familiarity. Their lives had been tightly intertwined for the better part of almost twenty years, and yet, for as interconnected as they had been, he and Diana had lived wholly apart. She'd been his near-constant and only companion, in some form or another, for the better part of his post-asylum existence. But for all their closeness there stretched between them a gap the size of the Red Sea. Their lives were ones of mystery—hers in particular—where neither confided in the other about the inner workings of their day-to-day routine.

As he reflected back on his career, _she_ had been his routine, and on some level he had been hers as well. But he still didn't _know_ , really, who she was. He knew the important parts; he believed that with every fiber of his being. But beyond that, nothing. Only when he'd received the briefing for her Kill Order and a personnel file to review had he even known her age and date of birth. It was a true testament to the hush-hush nature of their profession.

Once Victoria entered the picture, everything changed. Suddenly, he'd found himself much more involved and much more aware of Burnwood affairs than he had ever imagined possible. To be fair, he _did_ make regular inquiries as to Victoria's progress. But some of what they discussed went above and beyond a simple three-month check-in out of cordial concern.

Diana was usually one to "give the orders" on assignment. Reasons being, he didn't know what to do until she told him. She was the Handler, he was the Agent. Following orders was his job, because he could only act on the orders he was given. Once she relayed the details and objectives of the contract, he was free to carry on as he saw fit. It was freedom and control, all rolled together into one.

So imagine his surprise when, out of the blue, she calls and asks not only his opinion, but his _permission_.

With her captors dead and the threat of Agency termination past, Diana sought to give Victoria a taste of freedom—in increments and with gunned supervision. But Diana wouldn't take so much as a heel-step outside the manor without running it by him first.

That had struck 47 as enormously odd. Diana had sheltered and safeguarded Victoria for two, three years with zero assistance from him. He saw no reason why that would change. If anything, he should be needed _less,_ what with Benjamin Travis dead and both he and Diana reinstated and on good standing with the ICA. And yet, she'd wanted clearance. She'd wanted his blessing.

He'd given it, because hell. Who knew better how to protect themselves than Diana Burnwood?

The questions were infrequent, and legitimate. They were, truthfully, the sorts of questions he himself might ask if their situations were reversed. They may very well have been questions she'd wanted to ask for years, but was unable to having lost contact following their then last and _disastrous_ assignment in Nepal. Yes, they were legitimate. But they perplexed him.

Up until they didn't. Somewhere along the way, he'd grown to _like_ her seeking his council, so much so that he believed himself offended if she did not. (And _that_ was more ludicrous than even the idea his help was needed in raising a child.)

It was for a similar question he found himself there, in person, Victoria in pajamas and Diana outfitted in a silky, babydoll gown. A week before he had called, on routine, when Diana voiced a peculiar concern.

 _She's eating well...almost too well. Her appetite's increased of late. I suppose I could chalk it up to a growth spurt, but I'm not certain she's the sort of child to have those sorts of "spurts." I was wondering, back when, if you'd experienced something similar. She seems fine, happy even, but I don't want to take chances…_

As he'd said, legitimate.

He'd thought about it, probing with a few questions of his own. Her diet was balanced, thanks to Diana, and her weight consistent. Victoria was neither gaining nor losing pounds, which meant in all likelihood she was okay. But Diana knew nothing of kids—fine pair they were, neither did he—and Victoria wasn't "normal." Her worry was justified.

 _It's nothing,_ had been his reply. _She's growing, probably playing catch-up from a dependency on injections. I ate pretty good myself at her age._

It wasn't a lie. He didn't know some of what he said for one-hundred percent sure, but he didn't lie. Then he added:

 _Don't let her eat ten pancakes a day._

He'd heard nothing further of the issue, no frantic calls or texts, so he'd assumed all was well. Even so, it was just another tick in a long line of uncharacteristic behavior for the heiress, to so fervently seek his input. Yes, he was a clone himself, and thus his knowledge and insight proved valuable to Diana's cause. But there was something in her voice, something in her appeal to him that struck a nerve. It was as if, it was as if…

...It was as if she deferred to his authority over the girl.

And if that were true, it begged the question: what _was_ his authority over the girl? If his suspicions about the DNA used in Victoria's creation were right, then Diana's inclusion of him made sense. But the answer to one question only served to unveil another. How did Diana factor in? And why did her "concern" for Victoria, her "charge," seem to exceed what would be reasonably expected of an unrelated caregiver to provide?

He'd dropped in right at supper time—repeating to himself that he was hungry and tired and _not_ irrationally concerned for the girl's welfare—Diana's schedule as punctual and predictable as a Swiss clock. Victoria seemed happy, as Diana had observed. Nor had she overstated the increase in Victoria's appetite. The girl powered through two sizable sea bass fillets in record time, not so much as lifting her head to take a breath. Then it was forkfuls of salad, with all the trimmings. She'd shoveled a gigantic broccoli floret in mouth, stilling only at the feeling of two pairs of eyes—one amused, the other horrified—bearing down on her. Looking sheepish, she'd smiled, close-mouthed, her cheeks slightly puffed from the overstuff of food. The meal ended with a mountain of blackberry cobbler and whip cream, and in that regard it was hard to tell if his or Victoria's helping was bigger.

(Diana always, _always_ glared at him during dessert, as if _he_ were the one responsible for Victoria's love of sweets.)

After dinner, they'd moved upstairs. He preferred it there, away from the prying eyes and ears of Diana's painfully inadequate security staff. ( _They're only incompetent as it applies to you, 47_ , had been her defense.) Here, in the privacy of the upper floors, could he undo his tie, take off his gloves, and rest.

It also served as a better vantage point for studying the girls.

But for all his hours of analytical contemplation, he'd come no closer to unlocking the mystery of Victoria, "The Doctors," the secret experimentations, or Lady Burnwood herself. There was no real way of unearthing what Diana knew or didn't know, short of holding her gunpoint and demanding answers. And a part of him suspected that even _that_ wouldn't get him very far. He had plenty of theories, but they all boiled down to just that—theories. For all he knew, his suspicions of Diana were completely off-base, and she had saved Victoria for no other reason than the belief that genetic manipulation, in children especially, was morally wrong.

But he wasn't holding his breath.

For now though, he'd exhausted his mental reserves and wanted nothing more than to lean back and relax. Sometimes the "secret places" of his life were more trouble than they were worth. Not to mention he was bushed. He'd sleep here tonight.

Right on cue, Victoria jumped up from her spot on the floor, hair groomed and perfectly in place, plopping herself leg-touching-leg against him on the couch. She brought with her the small rabbit plush, cradled reverently in her arms. 47 momentarily broke eye contact to watch Diana's lithe form sashay itself to the bar, presumably with the intent of fixing his favorite drink. He watched a second or two more than was professional, before bringing his eyes back to rest on Victoria's innocent and maddeningly familiar face.

She smiled.

Perhaps, just _perhaps_ , killing was no longer what he prided himself in most.


	12. Waspslayer

Author's Notes: Yes, yes. I'm here. I realize it's been some months since the last update. And I have NOT abandoned EtP, I assure you. I write fanfiction for a number of series/games, and had sort of a..."contractual obligation" to finish a fic I'd started for one of those other series, which took me a whopping two months to see through to completion. (I was literally churning out a fic a week there for about ten weeks.) I took some breaks before and after that assignment due to the intensity of the challenge, as well as an opportunity to revamp my profile page with a reworked bio and a new image cover for EtP. It's a shot of—shock, shock—Agent 47 from Absolution. ^^

The idea for this fic came from an incident that happened some months back at work. A wasp somehow got into our data center, and seeing as those suckers are straight from the ninth layer of satan's a-hole, I promptly informed a superior to come and kill it. After smashing it with a broom handle, I jokingly dubbed him "Waspslayer." He thought it was funny, and I thought it sounded like a great title name for a fic. Thus, this chapter was born.

I'd initially intended this to be short. And "funny." I'm "yes and no" successful on those fronts—Diana IS comical in this fic—though it took a turn for the serious near the end that I hadn't planned on when I started. Oh well. It drives home a good point.

I'm thinking there's something important here I meant to say. But I can't recall what it is. Eh, I'll throw it into the next AN if it comes to me. xD

Disclaimer: _Hitman_ is © of I/O Interactive.

 **Waspslayer**

The morning started off well enough.

She'd awoken, per the norm, at 8:00 a.m. 47 had spent the night, and as was often the case with his overnight stays, was tiredly reclined on the living room couch. Diana had roused as well, looking more alert than her assassin counterpart. Her long legs dangled over the stool of the bar, where she sat reading a newspaper and drinking tea.

Greetings were exchanged. Victoria voiced a soft "good morning;" Diana reciprocated with one of her own. 47 had "hmmed," groggy and half asleep.

The sound and sight of it made Victoria giggle, unaccustomed as she was to seeing 47 "out of sorts." He'd opened and closed one eye in her direction in response, something akin to a smile lightening the sternness of his face. Diana had smiled then too, hiding her amusement in the pages of the Dow Jones.

The everyday ritual of teeth-brushing and breakfast had followed. Afterwards, she'd plopped herself onto one end of the couch, curling up against the armrest while 47 collapsed on the opposite end, his head falling back against the cushions and his right foot propped on the fine glass of the low-rise coffee table. Diana had excused herself to shower.

From there, the morning sort of fell apart.

Victoria knew something was wrong when Diana emerged quickly from the bath and slammed the door behind her. Diana wasn't one to "pound" or "beat" or make unnecessary noises. She was—much like her agent counterpart 47—silent by nature, using soft voices, gentle gestures, mindful steps. To "whop" a door was an uncharacteristic move. 47 too sensed something amiss, as he immediately jerked to attention, his body taut and hand already within arm's reach of his Silverballer pistols.

To her own surprise, Victoria too had assumed a defensive stance, her fists clenched in anticipation of...well, she wasn't sure what. It brought to memory the last time she had reacted in self-defense, an action that had resulted in the death of several well-armed guards and a world-shattering realization that "killing" was not quite the romanticized invincibility she had always imagined it to be. It was in that mortifying moment—the moment she had ruthlessly terminated someone's _life_ —that she understood 47's "profession" was more than simply firing a shot and riding gloriously off into the sunset. It was fear and responsibility and shock and the feeling of being hit by about ten oncoming trains all in a matter of seconds. It was _not_ the glamor and grandeur she had led herself to believe.

She'd decided then she wanted nothing further of it.

But if Diana needed help, if something was endangering her or 47 or their home, she was ready and willing and able—that was honestly the scariest part—to do all in her power to stop it. Even if those ten trains turned to twenty, she'd defend her "family" to the death.

Clearly, 47 felt the same. The Silverballer pistols, previously at arm's length, were now firmly in-hand and ready to shoot. His face was as stern as she'd ever seen it, his eyes darting first to Diana, then the door, then back to Diana, issuing a silent command to stand behind him in anticipation of whatever it was threatening her on the other side of the door.

But Diana didn't go rushing to 47's side. She didn't yell for her to run to her room and barricade herself in. Quizzically, Diana didn't even acknowledge they were there.

Instead, Diana walked briskly to the bar, picked up the morning's discarded periodical, rolled it into a firm tube-like shape, then retraced her way back to and through the bathroom door. She then shut herself in with a click of the latch. Silence followed.

47 shot a side glance her way as he steadied his guns in the direction of the bath. Diana did not reemerge, and as they waited for the dramatic...whatever it was to transpire, Victoria wondered how silly she and 47—positioned for all the world like characters in an action film—might look to the casual passerby. Seconds turned to a minute, and Victoria saw in the hitman's face that his features mirrored the confusion in her own. He turned his head to meet her then, and with a silent exchange they agreed to move forward, his weapons cocked and at the ready.

With 47 at the lead, Victoria peering out from _behind_ his right arm, they entered the bathroom with a gingerly turning of the knob. Just as they poked their heads into the crack of the doorway, both she and 47 were greeted with a loud "Thwop!"

And there, at the corner of the room, stood Diana. She was clad still in her silken robe, with the rolled-up newspaper pressed purposefully against the bathroom wall. Her face was hard and her eyes focused, as if every ounce of strength in her lithe body had been channeled into the curling of her fist. She lifted the makeshift weapon in the air, her eyes tracking at a rapid descent as a small, dark _something_ fell lifelessly to the floor.

Victoria craned her neck to look up at 47, whose weapons had dropped limply to his sides as a light bulb seemed to flash across the unnatural hue of his ice blue eyes. He stepped forward then, taking his place at Diana's side to stare likewise at the spotless tile below. Bending down, the hitman inspected the fallen foe with a furrowed squint. Had she the slightest understanding of what had happened, Victoria might have joined them. But she felt it wiser to simply stand back and wait.

"Disgusting thing," Diana seethed.

Crouched down, 47 pulled the newspaper from Diana's hand. He unrolled the tube, flattening the paper against the floor and shoveling the motionless _thing_ onto the "Finance" section of the daily news. Straightening himself to his full height, 47 carried the paper like a tray out into the middle of the room, Diana glaring daggers at the offending whatever-it-was from behind. 47 jostled his wrist a bit, checking for any residual signs of life.

Victoria glided out to meet them, eager for a better look. Up close, she could see that the _thing_ was in fact a sufficiently squashed _bug_. It was big—for an insect—and black with an elongated body and a rather vicious-looking, needle-like "stick" hanging out the bottom end. It was perhaps one of the most curious creatures she had ever seen, though its appearance alone suggested it was a worthy adversary to contend with.

"Can you believe it? In _my_ bathroom, of all places."

Diana spoke as if it were the greatest atrocity ever committed.

"Flew in from the balcony," 47 reasoned, his eyes tracking the path from the bathroom to the double doors down and past the second story hall.

"I don't care if it flew in from _Mars_. It's a clear trespassing of my property."

"It's a _bug_ , Diana," he said in a dry tone. "They slip easily into open doors and windows."

"We don't have open _anything_ in this house!"

47 rolled his eyes.

Against her better judgment, Victoria interjected a nagging question. "What _is_ it?"

"Dead, and rightly so," Diana sneered proudly.

"A wasp," was 47's more informative reply.

"I've never seen one," was all Victoria could think to say.

"And you won't again. I'm calling the exterminators to have this mansion fumigated first thing next week."

And with a fluid heel-turn, Diana glided aggravatedly into the living area just outside the door. That left she and 47 alone with their uninvited—and decidedly deceased—guest.

Some seconds passed in silence.

"Why not just catch it and let it go?" Victoria asked.

47's brow narrowed at the bug's crumpled remains. "Wasps aren't something you 'catch.'"

Her eyes widened at the ominous insinuation in his tone. "Are they bad?"

"They're aggressive."

"'Aggressive?'"

"They don't need provocation to attack."

Victoria gathered from the ire in his voice he had been on the receiving end of one such "attack."

"Does it hurt?" She pointed to the scary "stick" protruding from the wasp's lower half.

"It's…" he paused, searching his brain for the appropriate word. "...unpleasant."

"How'd it happen?"

"Wood piles."

That caught Victoria off guard. "Huh?"

"Wood piles. Concrete. Gardens. Run into them quite a bit on jobs." He lifted his eyes to meet her then, his expression flat. "I've killed dozens tracking targets."

Victoria stared down at the now-harmless creature's resting place, mind pondering how something so _small_ could be so indiscriminately vicious. It reminded her of the nature discovery shows she'd seen on television. The world, she'd since learned, was filled with a myriad of fascinating creatures. Animals and insects of all shapes and sizes, scattered across all seven continents on planet Earth. Some were gross and harmless. Others were beautiful and deadly. So many species of life, with wide-ranging patterns of behavior. It raised the question of just _what_ it was driving these behaviors. Were wasps "created bad?" Were they an inherently wicked thing? Was there no other value to such a creature than to inflict pain and suffering? And if so, did they really have any reasonable right to exist?

She too had been "created." Blake Dexter and Benjamin Travis had confirmed as much. She'd been created to "attack." She'd been created to "kill." And she had demonstrated the behaviors to do both.

...What right did _she_ have to exist?

"Stop."

47's stern voice sliced her thoughts like a knife. She looked up then, his eyes staring hard into her own. He repeated himself, louder and with more force.

" _Stop_."

He put the paper off to the side then, lowering his head to speak directly in her line of sight.

"Wasps don't have choices. _You_ do."

Silence followed as they stared one another down in the middle of Diana's second story bath. Her lip quivered a bit at the strong emotion welling in the pit of her gut, and only the mortification at the idea of 47 catching her _cry_ , of all things, stopped the tears. But there was no judgment in his face—only a show of stoic support.

"No signal!?"

Diana's lilting screech broke the seriousness of the mood.

"How can I have _no signal_? I have a T2 connection line in this house!"

A rustling of drawers echoed through the hall.

"Quick! Somebody get me the Yellow Pages!"

Victoria burst with a happy laugh, wiping moisture from her eye at the sound of Diana's fit. From the look on his face, 47 did not share in her amusement. He straightened himself once again, chest heaving with an annoyed sigh. He walked around her then—placing a hand on her head as he passed—stalking after his handler in the next room.

"You are _not_ gassing the place, Diana!"

When it was all said and done, they evicted the squashed wasp, tossing him back out and over the balcony railing from whence he (likely) came. Diana got her shower, finally, before settling down with a warm cup of tea. 47 saw to cleaning his guns—in-between eyeballing the girls—while Victoria laid sprawled stomach-down on the floor, head in her hands and legs crossed behind her as she watched a nature channel documentary on bees.

Nobody came to fumigate the house.


End file.
